Complicated
by The Ultimate Otaku
Summary: Draco Malfoy is secretly into Ron Weasley, and as he tries harder and harder to obtain the redhead, Ron begins to realize that there is more to Draco, and that the Slytherin is more complicated than he seems. R/D slash. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

"COMPLICATED," by Avril Lavigne:

_Chill out, what you yellin' for?_

_Lay back, it's all been done before_

_And if you could only let it be, you would see_

_I like you the way you are_

_When we're drivin' in your car_

_And you're talking to me one on one_

_But you've become_

_Somebody else_

_With everyone else_

_Watching your back_

_Like you can't relax_

_You're trying to be cool_

_You look like a fool_

_To me_

_Tell me_

_Why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?_

_I see the way_

_You're actin' like you're somebody else_

_Gets me frustrated_

_Life like's this, you:_

_You fall, and you crawl, and you break and you take_

_What you get and you turn it into honesty_

_And promise me _

_I'm never gonna find you fakin'_

_No no no_

_You come over unannounced_

_Dressed up like you're something else_

_Where you are and where it's at you see,_

_You're makin' me_

_Laugh out when you strike your pose_

_Take off all your preppy clothes_

_You know you're not foolin' anyone_

_When you become_

_Somebody else_

_With everyone else_

_Watching your back_

_Like you can't relax_

_You're trying to be cool_

_You look like a fool_

_To me_

_Tell me_

_Why you have to go and make things so complicated?_

_I see the way_

_You're actin' like you're somebody else_

_Gets me frustrated_

_Life like's this:_

_You fall, and you crawl, and you break and you take_

_What you get and you turn it into honesty_

_And promise me _

_I'm never gonna find you fakin'_

_No no no_

_No no no_

_No no no!_

COMPLICATED

An R/D fic

By

The Ultimate Otaku

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was a little boy. His name was Draco. Draco Lucius Malfoy, if you want the biscuit in one bite. Draco did not like being a Malfoy. There were too many things to think about, and too little time to think about them, or to forget about them and go have some fun. He always had to pretend to be important, (while his parents were actually _being_ important) when in fact, he didn't want to be important at all. Being important was not fun, little Draco decided quite early on.

Being important, or that is, trying to be, consisted of A) Considering almost everyone else too low to associate with, B) Sounding very intelligent, intelligence being only one of several qualities he had to possess, C) Taking control of difficult situations like he knew what he was doing, and as if they were easy—everything worthy enough for a Malfoy to consider doing had to be easy for him to do, of course. And as many things as there were a Malfoy could _not _do, there were a great many deal of things he _had_ to do, also.

As well as being good at the fine games and sports (Chess, fencing, Quidditch and such), like any young boy should, Draco had to have manners, and know how to use those manners (misused manners, he learned soon, could be very dangerous—for instance, you were not supposed to use them at all towards the House Elves). He also had to know how to: write, read, accept all sorts of challenges, send formal and informal letters, invite people to parties, eat politely at the table, plus a hundred other rules!

The one he heard most from father though, was: speak only when spoken to, because it is part of minding manners; etiquette, it was called. There were a few exceptions to this rule, however. Speak only when spoken to, UNLESS the person speaking is A) rude, B) inferior (this particular category included many people, Draco noticed), C) a House Elf, D) A muggle, or Muggleborn, or any related to that nonsense-spouting, worthless lot, or E) A Weasley. This last one, Draco knew from his father having said so, was particularly atrocious.

Draco, however, did not learn what this "A Weasley" was for some time. So, he pondered about it. What on earth COULD this "A Weasley" BE? Was it some horridly ugly type of beast? Was it something dangerous his father feared would eat him (although Draco doubted his father feared anything)? Was it some type of nonsensical Muggle contraption? Or perhaps this "A Weasley" was the worst sort of Muggle that existed? Or maybe it was a mutated House Elf (Draco didn't see how they could get any uglier)? What WAS this "A Weasley"?

Draco pondered it, he pondered until it drove him mad. On his sixth birthday, a year later from when he had first heard the rules from his father, he was still pondering the Weasley mystery. He pondered it in his room, reading a book his father had given him (too boring to read, although he'd never say that aloud). He pondered during the morning walks with his mother (which stopped when he turned seven, and Draco could not tell his parents that he missed the walks, it would make him sound petty). He even pondered the Weasley mystery while in bed!

Finally, one day, Draco summoned the courage up to ask his father what on earth a Weasley was. Of course, he didn't phrase it like that. He said, "Father…May I ask…father, what IS a Weasley?"

For a moment, all was silent, and Draco quickly looked down at his shoes in fear, wondering if he had angered his father. But then the silence was broken, surprisingly, by Lucius' laugh. "Oh, come now, Draco, haven't you found out yet? Don't tell me you haven't seen them in the Daily Prophet, son—they get in there quite easily, the petty things."

Rather than saying that he did not read the Daily Prophet, and deciding he would start doing so daily, Draco shook his head no in reply. The answer he got was this: "The Weasleys are a family, son. A family of disgraceful Purebloods."

Draco, his eyes wide in surprise, stared at his father. "DISGRACEFUL Purebloods, father? I thought there _was_ no such thing! They shouldn't exist!"

Lucius smiled. "You are right, son. They should not exist. But sadly, they do. And the Weasleys…" Lucius' countenance turned dark, his frown one of the most fearsome Draco had ever seen. "The Weasleys are the worst of all Purebloods. They are the lowest of all vermin, for disgracing the rest of us so. And each and every one of them, these Weasleys, and their children—of which they have more than they can afford— has the most atrocious red hair, and freckles."

A while later, after receiving the answer to what he had been pondering so long, six-year-old Draco sat in his room. RED hair? Draco knew he should be appalled at the thought, because father obviously was, but he just couldn't be. Rather than being appalled, Draco was fascinated. How could someone have red hair? Red, like the sunset, red, like a fox, red, red like blood! Draco knew immediately that he desired to see one of these Weasleys, he certainly did. The thought of seeing red hair was too much to pass up.

But he tossed his red ink, reddish crayons, red coat, and the dagger with the ruby-encrusted hilt away, nevertheless.

~~~~~*~~~~~

**FIVE YEARS LATER…**

"_Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who _you_ are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford_."

Draco wasn't quite sure why he had said that. Of course, quoting father was one of his favorite things to do, but still…he hadn't meant to say that, not at all. As soon as he saw that boy, sitting beside Harry Potter himself, he had known what he was. Even _who_ he was! Father had certainly talked enough about the Weasleys that Draco felt he knew them each, at least a little. Of course, the one who his father had ranted about most was Arthur Weasley, but the youngest son had been mentioned once or twice, along with the rest of them. Ronald Weasley had piqued Draco's interest most—a boy, his age, with freckles and red hair! Unimaginable! But then there he was, sitting there, beside the Boy Who Lived, the disgraceful young wizard, the redhead, the _Weasley_.

Draco hadn't known what to say to that boy. He knew what he should have said, and indeed Draco _had_ said what he should have said, which was anything his father would approve of—and Lucius would indeed have approved of what Draco had said to this Ronald Weasley person. But Draco did not approve. Did this mean something, maybe mean that he didn't approve of what his father approved of? It meant trouble; that was what it meant.

Draco had said the first words that popped up into his head, which were the words his father had said to him so many years ago. He had had nothing else to say to that boy. But he had wanted to say something. It had felt like the words would tear out of his chest and dive at the boy if Draco hadn't said them. But he hadn't said those words. He hadn't said any words other than those words he should have, because he wasn't sure what the words he had _wanted _to say, _needed_ to say, were.

That red hair…it was messy, simple, and yet full of depth, too, if only in its color. It blared out some rude sort of statement at him, teasing him, daring him to stop the torrent of mockery that came to mind when he saw it, daring him to reach out, touch it, run his fingers through it, kiss the scalp from which it grew, tug at it as if he owned it. How Draco wanted to tame that fire-haired one, embrace him like a…Well, brother certainly wasn't the word Draco was looking for, here.

Besides, the boy already had too many of those!

~~~~~*~~~~~

**FIVE YEARS LATER…**

"AARRGGHH! GET OFF ME, YOU BLASTED—OUCH! BLASTED—FUR BALL—MONSTER!"

The sound of cloth ripping echoed through Hogwarts halls. A pair of strong, large hands grasped two paws in a moment of satisfaction. Then, chaos broke loose. With a yowl and a loud, threatening hiss, Crookshanks caused Ron to drop him, and as soon as the cat landed on the ground, he began running.

Ron grabbed his tattered, unworn robes and flung them over his shoulder, leaving his bag on the bench in his hurry. He sprinted, and then, pausing, turned around. Yanking off his coat, which had been torn by the cat—_blasted monster, tore my uniform coat! Not that I _like_ wearing the bloody thing, the white collared shirt is enough, but still! That bloody coat is the only thing that shows I'm Gryffindor, since I'm always losing my ties._

With only his robes fluttering behind him in a mass of cloth, like a cape, Ron rushed after Crookshanks, his untied shoelaces a hinder that he was too furious to bother with. Unfortunately, Ron was so focused on his chase, that as he rounded the corner, he missed the person standing in the middle of the corridor entirely—although, as the person was eventually directly in front of him, Ron couldn't help but notice. By then, however, it was much too late for him to stop, as Ron was propelling forward quite quickly.

He grimaced as he flew forward with the momentum of halting his run so abruptly. Ron waited for an ominous crunch as he fell forward on top of the person in an inevitable tangle of limbs. More prepared than the person he'd bumped into, Ron avoided bumping his head, hands flying out to catch himself. Who knew practicing a bit of Quidditch in the summer could rub off on him a few of those reflexes the best of 'em had?

As it was, however, there was no denying Ron was still in a mess. A mess which, with his luck, he'd no doubt get in trouble for. His knee had hit the floor so hard, Ron couldn't help but yelp, although he doubted he quite had the right to, because _he_ hadn't been the one crashed into and squashed, like the person currently beneath him! And Ron knew he wasn't quite the lightweight kind, either.

A low moan came from the person he'd collided into. Ron hoped against hope that the person he'd fallen into wasn't a complete stranger, or worse, a GIRL! He didn't understand the fussy, giggling natures of most of them, and barely got by in a day without bickering with the only studious one among them: Hermione. Otherwise, they were nearly all the same: quite boring, really. He didn't see why they appealed so much to all the rest of the boys—blimey, even _Colin_ liked them! That was a bit of relief though, honestly; with the amount of—what were they called?—Fittogriffs, or whatever they were, that Colin had taken of Harry in a lifetime, Ron had begun to wonder if Colin _fancied Harry_!

Wishing he'd never agreed to take that blasted animal of Hermione's for a walk while she proofread his Potions paper, which was due tomorrow, Ron tried to resolve this situation. Before he could even think of a solution, however, the person he'd collided into sat up a bit.

Daring to look down (the case was rarely up, for he'd grown to be one of the tallest students in school, taller than even Harry), Ron's mouth dropped open. The hand that had its fingertips rested on the floor was ornamented by a ring, two silver snakes entwining to sink their fangs into an emerald jewel, upon which was carved a swirling letter M. He didn't recognize the symbol, but the M, and the snakes, gave Ron no doubt as to who it was: Draco Malfoy.

A moment later and Ron found his chin was grabbed roughly by slender fingers, and then tilted downward in a commanding way so he could be looked at. Ron found himself looking into a pair of familiar grey eyes. So cold, so unfeeling…most of the time, he supposed the coldness, the apathy, and the cruelty were just due to the Malfoy boy being who he was, and having the father he did. Sometimes, though, Ron couldn't help but wonder what someone so careless about most things externally, could have feelings about, internally, as an individual, opposed to the evil thoughts his father surely trained him to think. Was Draco Malfoy just a brainwashed bloke? Or did he actually think something with depth, maybe even not so evil, in that brain of his?

Usually those eyes were narrowed at him, a look of hatred aflame in that gaze. But now…Ron gulped. He'd never quite seen such a look in anyone's eyes. It was a mixture of intense looks that he recognized and remembered from different faces he'd seen them on, though never on Draco Malfoy's face. It was doubt, sadness, weariness, awe, hope, want, need, curiosity, even fear! And all in one face, contained in a single glance.

Ron couldn't turn away from the look, for a little while. He couldn't abandon someone who seemed so helpless, even though that seemed impossible, and even though he had never been the hero before. He had always wanted to help someone like that, to help someone who didn't know what they were doing, or where they were going, which Harry and Hermione, the ones he had the opportunity to help most, always seemed to know. He had heard so many stories of people who were weak whose problems had been solved by simple answers to their questions, or responses to their words.

The only thing was, at this moment, Malfoy wasn't asking any questions, or saying any words. He was just staring…staring at Ron. Ron realized with a start that he was now straddling the other boy, and that one of Malfoy's hands was rested on his chest, perhaps in an attempt to push him away, or stop Ron from falling further, or…well, what reasons other than those two could there be?! There could be no other explanations. He became fidgety at the thought that, being so close, he could feel the Slytherin's body heat; the warmth was inviting. Ron shivered despite himself, realizing that he'd never been quite so close to Draco Malfoy before, and he'd never had the boy actually touch him—why would he? They hated each other, after all.

But now, Malfoy _was_ touching him. Ron could feel those cold fingertips just below his collarbone, just resting there. He wished immediately that he had not left the top button of his shirt open. He hurriedly moved to button it, bumping Malfoy's hand in the process, thank god. Ron half expected the other boy to grab his wrist and snap it, or punch the daylights out of him, when his hand brushed against Malfoy's.

Bumping that hand though, apparently, didn't do much. Rather then pulling away, Malfoy just let his hand slide downward, along Ron's stomach, straight down to rest upon the Gryffindor's left thigh. Ron gaped. Just the sensation of that hand against him, creeping ever…so…slowly, had made the hair at the back of his neck raise, and his breath hitched when the hand on his thigh didn't even _move._

"Wh-what…what are you DOING?! Malfoy, you—I—what the bloody hell!"

Ron quickly clambered backward off the Slytherin, panting, his blue eyes wide in what he had to admit was fear. What did Malfoy think he was doing? Was he a raving lunatic, or what? Putting—putting his hand _there_, so close, so close to—to—to…Ron took a deep breath. He couldn't even finish that thought!

Malfoy smirked that aggravating smirk of his, the one that always made Ron want to hit him. _An improvement compared to my wanting to grab his hand and, and…well, DOING something with it_, Ron thought. Standing up, that smirk still twisting his lips, Malfoy brushed himself off, slowly, every movement languid and careless. Ron couldn't help but watch these movements, noticing the way a flash of pale skin and slender hips was shown when Malfoy lifted both hands to comb through his hair, and the way those hands brushed carefully, slowly down that chest, palms directly against the black cotton cloth, before stopping their movement just above the knees. Malfoy stood like that for a moment, leant down, hands on his legs, palms flat against the cloth of snug fitting trousers. Then, his smirk melting to a look that could have been a true _smile_, an actual mildly pleasant look, he offered Ron a hand.

Ron stared at that hand. What was Malfoy thinking? Did he actually think Ron would fall for this sort of trick? No way was Ron going to be that gullible! Sworn enemies didn't just up and decide to be kind to you one day! Impossible! Ludicrous! Absolutely shite! There was no way Ron dared to accept that hand. No way. Besides, he didn't _need_ help! He could take care of himself just fine, thank you very much! That hand was the hand of evil. That hand was, well…it had…had _touched_ him! In places Ron would rather—Ron took a deep breath, knowing he _had_ to finish _this_ thought!—rather, really, not be touched! By _anyone_! Especially not, of all people, MALFOY!

Smacking the hand away with a snarl, Ron pushed himself up to a standing position with difficulty, reeling with dizziness when he was standing. _Ow, my head! Its pounding…feels like a bloody hammer's at it! Damn…knew I shouldn't have had anything to do with that orange monster cat…ow, god, the ceiling's spinning…_

Frowning, Ron shot Malfoy a dark glower, before quickly walking off to the Great Hall for dinner. When he walked in, feeling a bit better away from his enemy, it was to silence. Then, suddenly, giggles broke out at the Gryffindor table, even as he sat down, bleary-eyed. Placing his robes aside, he looked up reluctantly away from his plate as Seamus called his name. Seamus, a great grin on his face, was laughing as he said, "Crikey, Ron, from the looks of you, seems like someone wanted to shag you real badly!" The Gryffindor table broke out in laughter again.

Bewildered, Ron looked down at himself in questioning. Then, he realized the picture he presented to people: his hair was a wild mess, his tie was gone, his shirt was wrinkled, and his red overcoat had large holes and tears from Crookshanks' claws in the back of it, allowing all to see that, yes, the freckles Weasleys were famed for were on his back as well as arms, neck, and face. Plus, he discovered as he looked down, there was an evident bulge down below, and a tight feeling to each and every muscle of his. His face reddened slightly, the flush spreading down to boil a torturous heat in his groin. Looking up at the table again, Ron realized the memory of a hand on his thigh and the warmth of someone close was causing his hands to tremble…


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

Draco looked up. He hated being distracted from his thoughts. It happened far too often for his liking.

Letting Crabbe know that he was quite disinterested in whatever the burly boy had to say, Draco shot the other boy a menacing glare. Not noticing, Crabbe repeated his question, saying quietly to Draco, "Draco…do you really want that toast? I think…I think…"

Draco smirked. The boy didn't think enough to have anything to say after the words 'I think,' which was a lie for both Crabbe and Goyle to say. But Draco let the other boy continue, nodding lazily to show that he _was_ listening, however boring it was.

"Uh…well, Draco…that toast is, um…um…unhealthy, right? You don't want it, right? I mean…do you like jam? I mean, well, I like jam, but maybe you don't want it, 'cause jam is too…uh…" The boy's brows furrowed in confusion, before Crabbe remembered, "Oh! Right…unhealthy. Right. Jam's unhealthy."

Rolling his eyes, Draco shoved his plate with the toast on it towards Crabbe without a word. Then, he promptly rested his head on his arms, feeling his stomach growl with anger at the lack of food and the queasiness that ailed it. Ever since this morning, he'd felt a bit queasy. He had to admit to himself that part of it was nervousness at the prospect of seeing the Weasley boy at breakfast—problem was, there was no Weasley to see. The boy was absent for breakfast.

Draco had been unable to shove away his affinity towards the youngest Weasley son ever since he had first seen him on the train that day so many years ago. But, honestly, it wasn't just the red hair (which he definitely had a weakness for)! He wasn't quite sure what it was. There was a mix of feelings that made him attracted to the redhead. Part of it, of course, was simply male hormones; it was amazing how out of control they could get, and for Draco, who was used to being able to control himself, they left him quite uneasy. Not only was he uneasy in regards to hormonal issues, however, but also he was uneasy even just when nearby the Weasley boy.

Draco hated the sense of powerlessness that came with being nearby Ron. It took all his willpower to not lose his composure around the redhead, and often he blurted out some awful, quite horrid thing that was even worse than the original insult he'd meant to say to the boy. Blurting out was not a common Malfoy characteristic, and nor was being kind, but around Ron, Draco did one and always wanted to do the other.

Yesterday, he had done the other. He had been kind. And what had Ron done? He'd shoved Draco's hand away like it was a spider (well, maybe not spider, Draco mused, since Ron would shove one of those away in fear, not anger). But Draco supposed it was understandable that Ron would distrust him. After all, Draco had given him every reason to.

Draco had been prepared to meet the Weasley boy in the corridor, but he hadn't known that Ron would be running. Even then, rather than move, Draco had thought he could stop Ron. He had, but the consequences had been worse than he'd estimated: his head had hit the floor a bit hard, earning him a purplish bruise that was luckily covered by hair, one elbow had gotten scraped, and his overall body had gotten quite sore from the impact. He hadn't expected the Gryffindor to be so bloody HEAVY! It was amazing how the redhead managed to be so heavy and yet still stay in good shape.

And how appealing that shape was! Not only was there the red hair, but also Ron was tall, and thin, and stayed thin no matter how much he ate. That soft tanned skin…each freckle upon it not a blemish, but a speck that accentuated his beauty, and caused Draco to be curious—the freckles speckled more than the boy's face, neck, arms, yes, but how far down south did they go? Did they cover his entire _body_? A shiver ran through Draco just thinking about someday finding out the answer to _that _question.

A violent shove startled Draco away from his thoughts, and he stood up reluctantly. Frowning, he glanced up at the clock. It was time to go, but he didn't feel like it. Double Potions with Snape, who Draco knew wouldn't be upset if he was tardy. Sitting back down, Draco watched the rest of the student body moving out of the Great Hall, unconsciously checking for a glimpse of red hair reigning tall over all—it was a habit he was unable to break, after having practiced it for so long.

Nope, no tall redhead was in sight. Hefting his bag over his shoulder, Draco ran a ring-bedecked hand through his hair—time to go. The Great Hall emptied quickly, and he knew that if he left a minute later, he'd be a bit too late. It was a long walk down to the dungeons.

~~~~~*~~~~~

"DAMN IT! Why does this always happen to me? Why did they let me be late? Bollocks to this all, I hate Potions, anyway!"

"Ron! _Ron!_"

Ron looked to his left, and groaned. _Why? Why oh why did Hermione HAVE to wait for me at the corner? I wish she didn't know me so well. I wouldn't have skipped ALL of Double Potions with the Slytherins! Just the first half...so I could sleep some more, maybe…or at least avoid Malfoy…_

Ron decided to run. Hermione was already gone, and he only had a few more corridors to go through. Quickly running a hand through his hair, but knowing it was impossible to fix it now, he grumbled to himself. This was the result of getting up five minutes before his first class started: No breakfast, just enough time to get clean quickly and pick a pair of clothes, and _start_ to put them on! So hurried was he, he hadn't even gotten a shirt on yet!

Ron didn't think he'd run quite so fast before. _Okay, actually, I think I ran faster back in second year when those spiders were after Harry and me._ Ron shuddered at the memory. Wheeling around the last corner, he managed to yank both sleeves over his arms, so that his shoulders were covered, but then…it happened.

The doorway to the Potions classrooms was directly to his right. All he had to do was slip on his shirt, button it, and dive in the classroom. But, of course, it didn't happen like that. It seemed that simple, but it wasn't. Just as he was turning the corner, simultaneously trying to put his shirt on, three other people were turning the corner opposite of him. Ron skidded to a halt a moment too late and tripped over a stray shoelace just as the three others approached.

He fell hard, bag flying from his shoulder, books and parchment sliding out of it in a row like dominoes. Ron winced as the heard the tinkle of glass breaking—there went the new ink holder Hermione had gotten him last month for Christmas, with the Chudley-Cannons-Orange colored ink he'd liked so much. To make matters worse, his stomach groaned loudly. Oh, what he'd give for a snack just now! He felt he could eat a Blast-Ended Skrewt, so hungry he was.

Falling backwards was always the worst; Ron had learned this from years of experience in the 'art' of tripping. His large feet had given him trouble at first, causing him to stumble about like a madman before getting a growth spurt that made his big feet fit with the rest of him.

Falling backwards meant one had a harder time stopping the fall with one's hands. It meant a possible head injury, and a very sore bum, and most definitely scraped elbows. Ron received all of these except the head injury when he fell, but that was replaced quite well with the sting of humiliation.

Opening his eyes, he was met with an unwelcome sight: Draco Malfoy, standing over him. This time, no hand was offered in assistance.

Getting up quickly, Ron almost bumped into the other boy, but missed it by a hair, because the Slytherin took a tactful step back. The irony of it all hit Ron, when yesterday, Malfoy had been too close for comfort, as if he wanted to do just the _opposite_ of avoiding Ron!

Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering in the shadows. Pansy Parkinson peeked her head out the door and cackled before going back into the classroom. Ron felt a raging headache coming on, even as he slowly finished donning his shirt, making sure to button every single one, this time. It had been a relief to be able to control his body after the years of clumsiness he'd gone through! Yes, he still stomped, but at least he didn't stumble! _Stupid shoelaces…_

Stuffing his belongings back into his bag, Ron hefted it over his shoulder as if it weighed only a few pounds, even though it noticeably sagged at the bottom from the weight. He turned around, about to give Malfoy and his cronies a glare they deserved, a glare that promised revenge, but the look on Malfoy's face stopped him short.

Malfoy was the only one _not_ laughing at Ron! The look on his face was solemn, rather, as solemn as if he was attending a funeral. And indeed, Ron felt as if some part of him had died—and he wondered why Malfoy would mourn it. For the part that died, that shriveled up like a plant without sunlight, was Ron's conviction—his conviction that, no matter what, Malfoy was evil and had no good intentions, or if it ever seemed he did, they were never genuine.

Staring into that face though, his gaze the only shovels that had struck gold, struck truth, discovered anything at all in the tunnels of Malfoy's piercing eyes, Ron felt doubtful. Perhaps Malfoy wasn't all that bad? Perhaps he _did_ have the ability to be kind? Maybe, just because he liked green, just because he was under the flag of the serpent, didn't mean anything. After all, no matter what colors he wore, Malfoy would always be just that: _Malfoy_. A person.

Shaking his head, Ron walked into the classroom, wondering if he even knew who Malfoy was anymore.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Draco licked his lips, tipping back his head to swallow the cure for his dry throat—a goblet of pumpkin juice. Smiling, he leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head as a pillow. He closed his eyes, feeling if he were a cat that he would purr.

The morning had been delightful, once breakfast was over. It was with surprise that Draco had seen Weasley jet around the corner, even though the redhead being late to Potions was a normal occurrence. He hadn't expected to have such an opportunity—to be able to lay his eyes on such a feast!

Never had Draco seen the Weasley boy so exposed, literally or figuratively. In those precious moments, in which Draco stood over Ron, looking at him, he had seen more of the Weasley boy, deeper into that soul, than he ever had before. There was a multitude of words and feelings to be found in Ron's face. Each part of it had its own meaning, its own hidden secrets, it words and feeling expressed and not expressed, seen and unseen. Draco had never known Ron's face, his soul, had so much depth to it.

Somehow, Draco had found the only thing he'd been able to compare that face to was a gift box. It was simple, perhaps even plain, on the outside, but truly beautiful on the inside, by the good intention behind the handing of the box from one to another, by the love the gift inside the box represented. Inside that soul, deep within, expressed most strongly by Ron's face when he had fallen, because it was a moment where he had bared his weaknesses, Draco had seen many emotions, many things he had never imagined the redhead could contain. Upon that face, all the mysteries of Ronald Weasley were etched.

In that mouth, full, pink, pouting, Draco had seen anger—the wrath that Draco was so familiar with, a strong emotion the boy had difficulty reigning in. Atop slender brows, well situated, had sat ambition, determination—a willpower, and a passion that Draco had always been fascinated with, and never stopped wondering what made it immortal. No matter what happened, Ron always fought for whom he loved, and what he believed in, or what he wanted. The Gryffindor never stopping fighting until he got what he wanted. This was a quality of his that Draco admired.

And in those cheekbones—slender, gentle curves, the structure of a well-formed young man, Draco had seen tenderness. _There_ was the fondness, the love that Ron showed by his passion for people and his beliefs, by his unbreakable defense of those whom he held dear. But this love was also the love that rarely ever showed itself in any form that could be called gentle.

Draco saw all this, and multitudes more, in every curve and plane of Ron's face. And when Ron had opened his eyes, Draco had seen each of the many emotions and mysterious threads that made up the web of Ron's experiences and life, which formed Ron into the person he was. It had awed Draco, and made him even surer that if there were anyone he would fight to get, to understand, to be close to, it was Ron Weasley. Fate had rolled the dice, and there was no picking them up. It was too late to turn back.

But how could Draco possibly make Ron understand all of this? He felt so much, he wasn't sure _he_ even understood it, so how could Ron understand it?

He decided the first step was making Ron trust him, making Ron see that he was more than enemy, more than a Slytherin, more than a devilish serpent whose fangs could deliver the bite of death.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

Ron sighed. He hated studying! But he and Hermione both knew that if he didn't study now, on Friday night, then he wouldn't study at all, and end up flunking the Potions test come Monday. He'd been studying for ages though, it seemed, and now he was sick of it. Upon glancing at the common room clock, he saw it was 6:30. _Yes, only half an hour 'till dinner…_

Brushing a hand through his hair, making it even messier as a result, Ron leaned back in his chair. His quill dropped from loose fingers, and the parchments he'd been writing notes on rustled slightly as Ron, scooting back his chair to give his long legs some space, placed a pair of green-socked feet on the desk. Yawning widely, Ron pillowed his head with his arms, and closed his eyes. It only took him a few moments to fall asleep.

However, he was awake a few moments later, for in his sleep he had relaxed his muscles, causing the chair to tip back. Ron's chair fell backward, and the boy jolted awake in pain, moaning, "Oh, shit…oww…" The lump he now had on his head was pretty large. Grumbling, Ron stood up dizzily, picking up the chair and throwing it across the room. Glowering darkly, he stormed past Hermione as she came into the room, saying nothing. The world was against him this night, it seemed, denying him any comfort whatsoever. He might as well take a walk before dinner; at least he couldn't get hurt walking around the corridors.

Why did the world always have to be against him? What had he ever done to deserve all the bad luck? He inherited all the old things from his older brothers. He got all the workload now that his brothers weren't at home. He was blamed for Ginny's mistakes. He wasn't forgiven for forgetting things, when really it was totally understandable that Ron would forget things, he thought, because he had so much to do. He had to do chores, he had to do over-the-summer homework, he had to take care of Pig, he had to de-gnome the garden, he had to do his laundry, he had to clean his room twice a week, he had to write letters to people, he had to quiet the ghoul (or make as much noise as it did, but with pleasanter sounds) every once in a while, etc., etc., etc!

Ron looked up with a start, realizing something: It was quiet. Too quiet! All the noises had faded away. As he was walking, the noise had gradually gotten quieter, and quieter, until now. He heard not a single voice. He couldn't even hear the people on the above or below levels. Not a single staircase moved, and not a single frame said a word. Where was he?

Ron glanced around. The corridor was dark and cold, the gray of the bricks seeming especially plain and solemn in the dark silence. The walls were light colored, as if they were very old, but had somehow persisted throughout the years. And the smell…what _was_ that smell? It reminded Ron of the time he had been forced to sniff the inside of Fred's sneakers, or the time he'd waded in the murky waters of a lake nearby the Burrow, and found a dead fish lying on the shore. It was the smell of rot and age. But it reminded Ron of another sort of smell…well, not really a smell, he mused. More like a feeling, a coldness, which crept into his bones and made him shiver.

Jumping at a sudden noise, Ron held back a squeak of fear. He stumbled forward, squinting, unable to see where he was going in the dim light, unknowing of any way but away from where he was. His stumbling in confusion made him trip - Ron fell backwards, barely catching himself with his hands so he wouldn't get yet another bruise. Was that a cobweb up there? Oh, shit! He wanted to get out of here! No way was he going to wait around for the spiders to come get him! But…which way should he go?

Ron found himself suddenly disoriented. Had he come from the left, or the right? There were doors on either side of him, and his trip had made him completely lose any sense of direction. What had he tripped on, anyway? Oh, no, what if it was a spider? Ron stood up, and slowly, ever so slowly turned around, ready to run if he saw anything remotely resembling four pairs of legs.

Nope. But the door to his right, he noticed, was open, whereas all the others were closed. Finding this unusual, and wanting to escape from any spiders that lurked in the corridor, Ron slowly pushed the door open wider, and slipped inside.

It was an empty classroom. Desks loomed out from the darkness like huge beasts, casting eerie shadows on the moonlit floor. Glancing around as he walked down the main aisle in between the rows of desks, Ron sighed in relief to see that this classroom was used: that meant that it was clean, and most likely had no cobwebs or spiders in it at all. Ron turned around, startled, as he glimpsed something glinting in the corner of the classroom, by the window. Turning around fully to face the window from which the moonlight spilled forth, Ron saw that the glint was a pair of grey eyes, belonging to a heavily cloaked and hooded individual standing in the corner closest to the window.

Stepping forward into the moonlight, revealing himself to the stranger, Ron said quietly, "Er…sorry to invade your space. I, uh…I'll only be in here a little while. Promise."

The stranger said nothing. Shrugging, Ron sat down on the window ledge, leaning against the sill, the brick cold and dry against the skin of his neck, each groove seeming to push into him, to try to distract him from the stranger standing in the shadows. He couldn't help but stare—who was this person with the striking eyes, lurking in the shadows? Why was he or she here, alone, with apparently nothing—as far as Ron could see beneath the heavy cloak and hood—but a wand somewhere on him or her? Ron couldn't even see the House badge on the person, because it was so dark.

Ron sat in silence. It was somehow comforting to glance out the window onto Hogwarts grounds, and to see the moonlight shining onto some things other than him—a few bushes seemed to glow in its light, and the grass appeared silver. Ron felt strangely isolated from the rest of the world in that moment. The moonlight favored him, its light shimmering strangely to pale his skin, shadows stretching on either side into the classroom and on most of Hogwarts grounds that he could see from this point, the darkness swallowing up the trees and the lake, making Hogwarts seem like a small and quiet place.

It was suddenly unnerving, to glance to his left, his right, and at the stranger, and see that everything was in shadow. He felt as if the moonlight did not bless him, but rather, cursed him, making him stand out in the light, a clear target to anything hungry for a victim. He felt vulnerable from every side, the light of the moon a threat that pressed upon him and blinded his sight if he tried to glance straight at the moon in defiance.

Unable to take the silence or the strange feeling he felt of isolation and discomfort anymore, Ron glanced over at the stranger. Those eyes, the glance more piercing and swarming with innumerable feelings than any stare Ron had ever experienced, were looking straight at him. Trying to shake off the uneasy feeling with a shrug of his shoulders, Ron took the stare as an opportunity of having the stranger's attention, and asked with real curiosity, "So…why are you here?"

Ron was surprised when he got an answer. "Just to relax…and think over some problems, in a place that's peaceful and quiet." Well, his first real question had been answered: the stranger was a boy.

Ron didn't even notice the personal jab aimed at him, and continued talking. "Oh. I see. Well, me too, sort of. I got sick of studying, and figured I'd take a walk before dinner…so, what is it that's on your mind? Are they the typical troubles—doing poorly in school, or unable to find a library book, or getting weekly detentions, or failing a class, or losing Quidditch matches? If you can't find a library book, it's probably because my friend, Hermione Granger, carries almost half the library along with her every day. Are your problems any of those?"  
"No."

Ron couldn't help but notice the crisp way the short answer was said. He decided to change the subject. "Do you play Quidditch?"

"Yes, I do."

Ron immediately became interested. "Really? What position?"

"Seeker. Before Hogwarts, I used to pretend I was a Chaser…but that got kind of lame. And really, I'm a better flyer than that."

Ron nodded, smiling to find another interested in Quidditch (and a Seeker, at that!) and then asked abruptly, "Are you a Pureblood – or Muggleborn? I, I mean, not that I care, I'm not against Muggleborns or anything, not like those nasty Slytherin gits. Hermione's a Muggleborn. She's a really smart witch though, probably the best in the whole school. I hate when she makes me study, though. Stupid Potions test on Monday…"

Ron looked up in surprise as the stranger laughed. The laugh was a nice one, loud and rich in warmth, echoing around the room. It changed the entire mood of the darkened room, immediately turning it into a place Ron was suddenly glad to find himself at. Glancing bemusedly at the stranger, and wondering why he didn't feel angry—after all, the stranger was probably laughing at him—Ron asked, "What? What's so funny?"

Ron looked up as the stranger suddenly moved out of the shadows. That pair of grey-blue eyes were even more startling when the moonlight hit them, and Ron almost gasped to see how bright they were. He quickly moved aside to make space as the stranger, still wearing cloak and hood and therefore unable to be identified, sat down next to him on the windowsill. A smirk twisted a pair of lips that Ron could just barely squint to see in the heavy shadow—for the stranger sat with his back to the window, so the light shone only upon his cloaked head, and his features were still hidden.

Chuckling, the stranger said quietly, "You, Ron. You're funny. You have so many opportunities to take tutoring or just get a few tips from various people about Potions, but you don't take advantage of any of them—your muggleborn friend, or various other people. At least one good thing about the Slytherins is that some seem quite adept at Potions, hmm? Why not get a few tips from one of them?"

Ron was furious at the suggestion. "Take tips from a Slytherin? No! That would be a shameful thing for a Gryffindor to do, a total toss away of pride! I have pride in my House, and I won't toss it by asking a Slytherin for help. Besides, do you want to know what I bet one of them would say? They would call me a fool for thinking to ask, and would whine on about my family and my worthlessness and stupidity for a while, and then they would laugh. Snape would—"

"Do they make you feel worse – the Slytherins? When they make fun of you, about your family, friends, and poverty…etcetera. I mean…what's it like?" The boy's voice was low, quiet, as if he was hesitant about asking the question.

Ron growled. "Well, we're not half as poor as everyone thinks! We just like to get along with what we've got; it's the family philosophy, in a way: take what you get, but aspire to make something out of what you get, and be the most you can be. You know there's going to be mistakes in life, bad things and feelings, but you just have to deal with it, and make the most of it and of yourself that you can. It is sort of shoddy, though…our house, and belongings. I inherit all my older brothers' things, and I get blamed for a lot of shit. As for me, and my friends, and different aspects of us – I wouldn't care what the Slytherins say, since I know who I and my friends really are, but they lie so much, and some people actually believe them. That just makes me so mad, that people believe all that junk. Even if they do, why not come up and talk to us, ask us, instead of just believing the Slytherins?"

For a long while, the stranger was silent, silent so long that Ron thought the stranger didn't want to talk anymore. But then, quietly, the other boy said, "I see you what you mean. And the family philosophy – it's a good one. Anyways, I interrupted what you were saying before – continue, please."

"What was I saying? Oh yeah, reasons not to ask the Slytherins for tips. Well, Snape would be even more brutal during the next Potions lesson, and would probably take some points off of me for no reason, and Malfoy would laugh his arse off so hard that his goddamn smirk would become permanent. I REFUSE to ask a Slytherin for _anything_!"

"I suppose I can see your point. It has some truth in it. I don't think Professor Snape would get involved in the matter during the next Potions lesson, however, and I do believe you are highly biased. Put aside the Gryffindor ego, and just think—what if you wanted to ask a Slytherin a question, not relating to school or anything like that. Not asking as in a request, because obviously you see that as a weakness and refuse to ask a Slytherin for anything resembling 'help,' even if the consequences of not getting help are horrid, but just as something you want to know, any question at all—what would you ask? And if there was a specific Slytherin you wanted to speak to, who would it be?"

Ron thought about it, for a long time. He didn't even contemplate what sort of question the stranger was asking, but just accepted it, and tried to think of an answer. Who would he ask, and what? Was there any particular Slytherin he wanted to know something about, or had always wondered about? Not really. He didn't like a single one of them, and didn't know very many of them, actually, he realized. A few random Slytherin names came to mind—Millicent Bulstrode, Zacharias Smith, Blaise Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson. But he certainly didn't have any question for them. What about Snape? Ron pondered about that for a little bit. Snape? But what would he ask? There was no point asking the man why he hated Ron so – it was a Slytherin versus Gryffindor thing, a tradition of sorts that had been going on for ages, and never ended, because never did a Slytherin or Gryffindor in history take a liking to each other in any way.

Then, suddenly, the answer came to him.

"Malfoy!" Ron said. "Malfoy would definitely be it. I would ask him."

There was a pause, and Ron glanced at the stranger to try and gauge his reaction, but a slender, pale hand was tugging at the hem of the hood, covering the boy's face even more from view. Ron noticed a few threads of the hood coming loose, the boy tugged and pulled at it so.

"Why would you ask…this, this Malfoy? What would you ask him?"

Ron changed position, curling his knees up to his chest, hugging them to him, and placing his bruised chin gingerly atop. He blew a stray lock of red hair to the side before answering. As he did so, he stared off into the distance, not quite seeing the view outside the window.

"I would ask him what he cares about, if somewhere in that brainwashed mind of his, he has the ability to think for himself, and if he does, what he thinks."

There was a long pause, and for a while, Ron just stared out into the distance, silent. This was peaceful, talking to someone interesting who had questions, contemplating things he hadn't thought on before. But he started to fall asleep, and had just closed his eyes, when the silence was broken.

"If he told you an answer you didn't expect, how would you react? Would you accept it as truth, or refuse to accept his answer, just because it's hard for you to fathom?"

Ron turned to face the stranger, squirming. What was the boy going on about?

"Well…what do you mean? I mean, it depends what the answer was. I mean, what would Malfoy say as an answer that I couldn't fathom? He'd probably say that the most important things to him are his father, You-Know-Who, his riches, his pure blood, and the book I bet he's written on 'strategies to kill Potter, Weasley, and the -' well, I won't say it. It's…you know. That offensive word for Muggleborns."

The other boy turned around to face Ron with such force, his face twisting in such anger that Ron thought he would surely get throttled thoroughly. Hands balled up into fists in evident anger, the boy shouted, "Is that ALL that – all that he MEANS to you? Does the name Malfoy just make you think of a Death Eater's son who worships Voldemort and who wants to murder anyone who cares for Potter and who loves only himself and his wealth? Is that ALL Draco Malfoy is to you?"

Ron was rendered speechless in the face of such fury. Those eyes seemed to blaze silver in their fury, those fists clenching and unclenching as if preparing to fight, teeth grit in fury, the veins of his arms standing, his hair on end. Usually people being angry with him didn't affect Ron, and most often Ron would get angry back. But seeing how such fury was so obviously directed straight at him, and noticing the way he thought the clenched fists and the sparkling wetness in those eyes also spoke of a great sadness at Ron's words, frightened Ron, that he could cause so much anger and hatred so quickly, and yet with those same words also cause such evident pain. Ron sat helpless, speechless, backed up against the windowsill as much as he could possibly be, eyes wide.

When no words came from Ron's mouth, the boy did not become even more furious as Ron expected him to, but rather, he became even more pained. Lunging forward, tears springing in his eyes, his eyelashes seats upon which the salty droplets sat, the boy grabbed Ron by the shoulders and shook him, hard. Cringing, shutting his eyes tightly, Ron felt his throat become dry, and his lungs heave to breathe, even as the boy's grip dug so hard into his shoulders, like talons, that he was sure he was bruised.

Ron wished he had no ears as the boy, voice choked, and cracking, trembling and faltering every few moments, rasped, "Is that all he is? You've changed; why can't Malfoy? Why must you hate all Slytherins, why must you give them no chance to be viewed as anything but horrid? Why can't Malfoy be seen to you as more than an enemy, a Slytherin, a Death Eater's son, a person to hate so much you almost burst every time you lay eyes on him? Why must you stereotype him so, and not see what lies beneath, but only what lies upon the surface? You're intelligent; surely you must know that if you strive to see beneath the thin layer, you will see the true Malfoy, as clearly as you see my face at this moment?"

Ron slowly, ever so slowly let a breath out with a whoosh, and dared to open his eyes as the boy's grip loosened, and those cold hands slid to rest upon Ron's hips. This caused him to remember it all in the rush—not that he had forgotten it, but he had forced it from his mind, so unable had he been to bear the memories. He remembered the collision with Malfoy in the hall, in which Malfoy had seemed to want to be close and had dared rest a hand on Ron's thigh, and Ron had discovered afterward it made his body feel and his mind ponder things he didn't want to feel or ponder. He remembered tripping in the hallway on the way to Potions, and how Malfoy had not laughed at Ron like the others, and how Ron had begun to think that maybe Malfoy wasn't so bad, and that he really didn't actually know Malfoy at all. So when the boy mentioned the true Malfoy, Ron remembered all of these repressed memories, and the image of Malfoy, his mouth twisted in a genuine smile, hand held out in an offer of kindness to Ron, came to mind.

And then Ron opened his eyes, and saw the face that who he thought was a stranger said he could clearly see. Immediately, shock hit him like a blow to the stomach. Ron stared in unconcealed alarm at the very boy who had become the chosen topic: Draco Malfoy. His eyes wide, red streaks upon his cheeks from tears now wiped away, Draco returned Ron's stare. Ron watched in silence as the hood slid from Draco's head, confirming the other boy's identity as Malfoy, with the unmistakable sight of that white-blonde hair, now unusually unkempt.

Ron stared at Draco, stared, and stared, until his eyes began to water. Then, just as Ron opened his mouth to speak, Draco leant in, and Ron thought at any moment, that, surely they would just bump noses? Surely, Malfoy was just going to laugh mockingly in Ron's ear for believing in him? Surely, this leaning forward didn't have any strange intentions behind it? Ron realized in a moment that it did, as those lips came but a breath away from touching his, before he quickly turned away in the nick of time, causing Draco's mouth to brush softly instead against his cheek. Ron found the touch of those lips to be soft, feather-light, gentle, and caring.

It hurt. It hurt to know that he meant more to this boy than he had ever imagined, and that he was now causing Draco pain. It actually _hurt_ to cause Malfoy emotional pain, the most pain Ron had ever caused anyone in his life. But it hurt even more to be confused, to be unable to understand his own feelings, to know not what to do about the situation, and only know that he was scared, and he wanted to be angry again, in order to regain the sense of normalcy with the world by being angry with Malfoy. But he had no reason to be angry with Malfoy! The need to escape, to get a chance to bury his face in his pillow and try and blank all thoughts from his mind swallowed Ron up, buried him so deep he felt the sting of tears unlike he'd felt in years prick at the corners of his eyes.

Ron shoved Malfoy away, glad that the boy caught himself and didn't fall to the floor. His head turned away so Malfoy would not see how much pain it caused him to say it, Ron whispered quietly, but loud enough for Malfoy to hear, "How could you do that? You…" A million words came to Ron's mind. _You…liar, Slytherin, poof, pillock, dimwit, or a hopeless romantic – to even imagine such a thing as an 'us' could exist. _That last one stung Ron just to think it. Never had he experienced such a feeling of elation upon a sign of affection, even with family. Never had the brush of mouth against his cheek, so soft, so caring, meant so much. Never had he been loved that much, that strongly, for who he was NOW, rather than for who he had been when younger, for who he had been _THEN_.

And yet Ron managed to spit out the words, "Malfoy, you're a bastard. Shove off."

Then, Ron did what he had felt like doing for years, but never done because he'd never been this afraid: He RAN.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Draco didn't know what to think, what to do, what to say. So, he said nothing, and did nothing, and tried his best to not think anything at all. Of course, none of the Slytherins were concerned for him; even though he lay in his bed all day, face down, without a single word or movement. Crabbe and Goyle, when he had arrived in the common room early next morning, had simply asked him why his face was green-ish. He had murmured that he'd decided he wanted to be Slytherin all the way. Of course, being Crabbe and Goyle, they'd accepted that answer.

On the third day, Pansy had come to see him, and nodded when he'd told her he was sick, after wailing for him to get up. He had promptly thrown many objects all around the room and at her, and at the door after she slammed it closed. It had not made him feel any better, really. But he supposed it had gotten him more exercise throwing than if he'd cast spells to make the objects toss themselves.

Blaise came in at one point even, and quietly told Draco to get the fuck out of bed, and that he was humiliating the whole of Slytherin, and especially Snape, by moping and not being present in public. Draco had said nothing to the other boy. Then Millicent Bulstrode had come, and tried to sit on him, saying that he'd either get up or get smashed, but he'd pointed his wand at her nose, threatening to rid her of it. She'd promptly shut up, of course.

No one else came to visit Draco. He didn't care either way; he tried his best not to care about anything. But every once in a while, he would glance at the Slytherin flag up on the wall, and would almost succumb to the temptation to tear it down. But he didn't. Finally, after a few words from Snape, and a lot of thinking, he had decided that there was no use sulking. If he went on too long, his father would send him a letter about the Malfoy pride, and besides, he tried to convince himself, it wasn't good to let one Gryffindor's words and actions affect him so much.

There were some points, though, he realized—three days after he'd stepped out of Slytherin common room for the first time in a long time—when he couldn't hold in his anger. He didn't want Ron to know how much it had hurt to be rejected; rather, he wanted to hurt the Gryffindor back. So, he decided, _the next time I see Ron, I will show no weakness. There is no time to love or to heal, only to hurt him. I'll be more aggressive upon our next encounter; that is for sure!_

~~~~~*~~~~~

"What did you do that for, Malfoy?"

Draco turned around, and then looked up. Damn it, he hated looking up! But it was required, if one wanted to look Ron in the eye. Smirking, he tapped his foot, drawling, "Do what, Weasley? Make you realize how pathetic you are?"

"Pathetic? I didn't DO anything! You knocked over my cauldron, you—" Draco snapped his fingers even as Ron jumped at him. How it hurt to see that fury burning in those eyes, and to know that he could never have or understand it. How it hurt to know that nothing but that anger and hatred would ever be directed at him. He felt a twinge of jealousy as Crabbe and Goyle grabbed Ron, one arm each, and shoved him back against the wall. Smirking, Draco stepped so that he was standing directly in front of Ron, only inches away. Standing on his tiptoes a little so that his eyes were level with the Gryffindor's, Draco smirked, stroking the underside of that rough jaw, and ghosting fingers over that pouting mouth, beautiful with its wide lips and smooth, gentle curves. Then, his smirk turning into a frown and was joined by a burning glare, Draco gave a harsh squeeze to one of Ron's shoulders, knowing at the other boy's wince that he was pushing against the same bruise his own hands had put upon Ron's skin. Draco smiled; it still hurt. Good.

Pointing towards a broom closet, Draco waved goodbye to the redhead, and then walked down the hallway. He cast a locking spell on the closet at the last moment, so Ron couldn't escape.

He didn't give a damn if that bastard died in there!


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Ron smiled as he heard the common room frame open. Someone was here! _Finally, relief from this homework_, he thought. He had been working on the Transfiguration for hours, it seemed. Dinner was still far away, and Hermione had been nagging at him all yesterday and today to work on it, so he had started working on it after lunch. The idea of a relieving sight was like a gulp of water in a desert.

However, the sight that greeted Ron when he looked up did not relieve him.

Standing in the doorway was Hermione. She looked weary. Dark circles were under her eyes, and there was a rare slumping to her posture.

What horrified him most to see, though, was Harry. The boy looked totally ruined. His glasses were perched crookedly on his nose, the middle part put together with tape, and blood streaked his jaw and forehead. The dark circle around his right eye was obviously not from weariness—someone had given him a black eye. This was a bit relieving to Ron: he couldn't imagine You-Know-Who punching Harry; the picture was so ridiculous, it almost made him laugh. _Almost_. Furthermore, there were multiple gashes and bruises littered on Harry's arms, what Ron could see of them, and pink marks on the brunette's neck. And was it just Ron, or did his leg look a bit…twisted wrongly?

Before Ron could even say anything, Harry collapsed in front of Ron's very eyes.

Rushing over to his friend, Ron helped Hermione pick Harry up, and rush him to the hospital wing. Running down the hallway as fast as he could with one arm supporting an unconscious Harry, Ron asked Hermione grimly, "Who did this to him?"

"I don't know, Ron. Maybe it was Malfoy?"

It was only when Harry crawled into bed and lay down on his stomach, face buried in the pillow, when Ron noticed the worst thing: A word carved on Harry's back, colored the red of blood. It wasn't that the word was cut deep—just enough to draw blood and make it stay there—but rather, the word itself, and what it made Ron realize in a moment of horror. Hermione had been right. This was Malfoy's doing. Ron stood staring at the word for a long time, wondering…why? But the answer stared him the face, in the form of the word on Harry's back:

REVENGE.

Burying his head in his hands, Ron closed his eyes shut tight against the stinging.

_It's all my fault._

~~~~~*~~~~~

"Knight to E-6."

Draco smirked. He would recognize that voice anywhere! And who else would be playing Chess at midnight in an empty classroom? Only Ron. The boy never got sick of chess, did he? He could play anywhere, any time.

"Queen to D-3."

Turning the corner into the room, Draco smiled as Ron looked up at him from his Chess game. His smile widened as he saw the shocked look on Ron's face. The redhead sat at a desk, crouched over the Chessboard, his fingers hovering over a pawn. Draco almost laughed to see the bed head hair that Ron sported—that red hair was pointing every which way in an eerie resemblance to Potter's usual 'do. Mouth hanging open, Ron stared at Draco for a moment, before raising a quizzical brow at Draco and snarling, "What're you doing here, Malfoy?"

Sitting down at the edge of the desk, narrowly avoiding bumping into the chess pieces on the board, Draco sighed, saying, "Insomnia. I couldn't sleep, so I figured I might as well take a walk."

Ron turned back to looking at the chessboard, and whispered an order to the pawn his hand had been hovering over. For a moment, all was silent, and Draco surveyed the board before him. It was obvious to his eyes that the redhead was skilled—_very_ skilled! Both white and black teams had set up multiple traps; currently, black was winning. But one or two good moves by white, and white could get the advantage. Draco eyed Ron with respect.

Finally, Ron replied. Still looking at the board, he said firmly, "Why don't you go walk somewhere else, Malfoy." It wasn't a question out of curiosity, or a courteous request. Draco's pride kicked in. Frowning, he tapped at the corner of the chessboard, and said quietly, "I'll do whatever I want, Weasley."

It happened too fast for Draco to keep track of. One moment he was staring at Ron's head of unruly hair, wishing he could rake his fingers through the flaming mop, and the next, he found himself sprawled against a desk, Ron's angry figure looming over him, two large hands at his throat.

Draco gulped. He usually wasn't one to be intimidated, and had faced Ron many a time, but with his eyes blazing hatred and his grip on Draco's neck tightening by the second, Ron was fucking _scary_! Draco struggled to free himself from the other boy, squirming and grabbing at the other boy's wrists, trying to knee the other boy away. Nothing worked though. He forced himself to look up into the other boy's eyes, knowing already what he would find there: Hatred.

There was hatred in Ron's eyes. Hatred so pure, so strong, Draco knew even _he_ had never felt the like. Ron's eyes were filled with it, filled so deep that Draco felt if he looked too long into those eyes he would be burnt to ashes. With those hands around his throat, nails digging into his skin, every muscle of the other boy's tight in anger, Draco had no escape.

The grip on Draco's throat loosened, and Draco found he could breathe again. As Ron stepped back, Draco closed his eyes, gulping in deep breaths of air. Damn, he'd thought the boy was going to _kill_ him! Slowly, Draco sat up. He watched as Ron packed away his Chess set, that mouth turned down into a frown of dismay. The boy had spilled the pieces and wrecked his game when he'd gone for Draco's throat.

Feeling a bit guilty, Draco leant down to pick up a Bishop that lay on the floor. He leant down at the same time that Ron did, however, and the result was the two boys bumping heads.

"Ow!" Draco rubbed his head even as Ron did the same.

Frowning, Ron growled, "Look what you made me do, Malfoy!" Then he grabbed the Bishop from Draco. It was with regret that Draco let it go—his only excuse for touching Ron that night, gone.

"I didn't make you do anything! You jumped at me and wrecked your game, I didn't do anything!"

Both boys stood up to their full heights. Draco looked up at Ron defiantly. Those eyes were blazing with anger once more. His teeth grit, Ron snarled, "Shut up, Malfoy."

Turning away, Draco said, "Well, it's true. It's your fault. I did absolutely nothing."

"I said, shut UP! If you hadn't started being stupid, I wouldn't've gone for your fucking neck!"

"Don't blame it on me. You made yourself go for my neck!"

"DAMNIT, Malfoy, just admit you're wrong, for once! Admit that it was your fault, and that you shouldn't have taken out your anger on my friends! Why do you go behind my back and hurt my friends, why not face me like a man? If you're angry at being rejected, come to me! To ME! You…you didn't have to hurt Harry like that, damnit. You really didn't."

Draco turned around, and uncrossed his arms. The frown dropped from his face. Ron sat on the desk, his box with the chessboard and set in his lap. Draco couldn't see that face, but he could tell by the slump of the shoulders, and the droop of the head, that the other boy wasn't angry anymore.

Immediately Draco regretted what he'd done and said. Moving to stand behind the other boy, Draco stared at Ron's neck. What to do to express that he felt sorry for what he'd done? What to do to show that he realized he was in the wrong? He didn't want to say sorry, didn't want to have the other boy grin in triumph, but it was worse to be the cause of Ron's sadness. Draco was used to making people feel negative, to inducing bad thoughts in people, but not bad thoughts that were _sad_, just angry thoughts.

Draco was about to place his hand on the other boy's shoulder when Ron whirled around. Face contorted in fury, Ron yelled, "Not even a SORRY?! I don't even hear a sorry for what you did? Your silence is answer enough, Malfoy. You deserve this!"

A wand dug into Draco's chest, and the next he knew, he was blasted across the room. Too pained to be shocked, he lay on the floor, wheezing.

Before he closed his eyes to blackness and pain, he thought he heard a small, "Even if you aren't…_I'm_ sorry. Sorry that it had to be like this."

~~~~~*~~~~~

Ron hobbled slowly into the Hospital Wing, cringing with every step. It had been a few days since Harry's recovery, and all was normal back in Gryffindor tower. Neville had spilt a few drops of his potion on Ron during Potions, and as a result, Ron's leg was littered with many burning, stinging boils. Sitting down, and feeling proud he'd reached the Hospital Wing to achieve such a feat, Ron waited for Madam Pomfrey to appear.

It appeared to be an unusually busy day at the Hospital Wing, Ron noticed. There were a few beds here and there, most with their curtains open—Ron winced to see the damage a particular two Ravenclaw Quidditch players had—and some with them closed. Ron looked up as he heard a sound of pain coming from the bed to his left; the curtains around the bed were closed, so Ron couldn't see who it was.

Ron sat still. He tried not to blink or breathe, so that the person who was grumbling and moaning in pain wouldn't know he was there: he had absolutely no experience with nursing, and didn't want to be asked for help and then make a mistake. Besides, he'd heard that if Madam Pomfrey saw a student helping a patient, she would make them be a volunteer nurse for a week or so. He didn't want to end up being one of them.

Finally, however, it got to be too much. The person was making a lot of noise, and apparently, whoever it was couldn't reach the bottle of medicine Madam Pomfrey had put on the bedside table. This caused them to growl a few choice swearwords than Ron couldn't help but grin to hear. Who but a Quidditch player could think of such uses for a broomstick?

Grinning still, Ron stood up and pulled back the curtain. As soon as he saw who it was, however, his grin dropped immediately. Frozen in position, he looked straight into the patient's eyes.

"…Malfoy? What are you doing here?"

Ron almost laughed, once he realized who it was. So, _this_ was why Malfoy hadn't been around during Potions! How funny! There Malfoy sat, a gash on one leg, multiple bruises and scratches to be seen on him, a particularly nasty lump by his temple, and a bad twitch in his right eye, to boot. And here was Ron, standing there, with great opportunity to laugh, and nothing to feel threatened by for doing so.

But suddenly, looking closer, and thinking deeply, Ron did not feel like laughing at all. For even as Malfoy replied, "I'm sitting here wondering how many detentions you have from Professor Snape; Weasley, what does it _look_ like?!" Ron, staring off into space, realized that the reason Malfoy was in the hospital was because of the spell Ron had cast on him a few nights back.

Ron jumped as Malfoy snapped his fingers in front of his face. He felt the rage begin to boil hot inside him, even as he stared at Malfoy. He was remembering what Malfoy had done to Harry. He stared, and stared, and wondered why a boy who actually _did_ have the ability to be kind (which Ron had seen), and was intelligent, would be so stupid! Then again, Ron should've expected it, right? After all, Malfoy was a bastard; he lived to bother people. It was always the same thing, with Malfoy: the stupid Slytherin thought that he was better than everyone else, and could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, with no consequences whatsoever! Forget the night they had talked; obviously, the real Malfoy _was_ shown on the surface, and all the good ideas Ron had considered and been told by Malfoy about Malfoy were lies! To think that Ron had actually _liked _Malfoy, the night they had talked; he had actually enjoyed talking to Malfoy, for the most part, had liked talking to someone new with a different perspective and with interesting questions to ask. That entire talk though, for Malfoy, had apparently been all lies. Malfoy didn't care what Ron thought of him, and did not have the ability to be a pleasant person.

For a moment, all was silent, as both boys glared at each other, fuming. Then, unusually enough, Malfoy exploded.

"DON'T YOU HAVE ANY RESPECT FOR PEOPLE," he yelled, "ANY CONSIDERATION AT ALL? I was about to apologize! I was silent because I was…I was trying to think of what to say! If you had looked, you would have seen the apologetic look on my face. What gives you a reason to blast that spell at me like that? Why can't you, Potter and that Mudblood of yours tolerate some pain, sometimes?"

Gritting his teeth, Ron managed to keep some of his temper in. He managed to. Just a little. The anger pulsed hot and quick in his veins, his knuckles whitened from being clenched in fury, but he held most of it in. Speaking quietly for as long as he could manage, Ron said, "Don't you DARE call Hermione that, you git! Don't you DARE! I'll blast you again; you bastard, if you dare say that, I'll blast your fucking HEAD OFF! And don't you even dare mention Harry, you little shit. I won't stand for that, no way! Now you shut your damn trap, you shut it tight, or I'll make sure you don't get a chance to even _blink_ again!"

Why was Malfoy making a big deal about the whole thing, anyway, yelling like that? It's not like it wasn't normal, him getting a bit pushed around! Why, Ron had all the right to give Malfoy some of his own medicine, what with all the taunts and cruelness he had treated Ron and his friends to over the past six years. Malfoy deserved to get a bit hurt back, to feel a little pain! Besides, after showing a bit of kindness, after talking to Ron, the Slytherin had stabbed Ron in the back! He'd thought that he was great, hadn't he? Thought he could beat on Harry with no consequences from Ron. What a fool Malfoy was! Did he just think Ron would forget about that night they'd talked? That Ron would dismiss it as nothing, and go about like things were the same between them? _If he'd realized that I knew something had changed between us when we talked, if he hadn't hurt Harry, it would be different now! No way_, Ron thought, _no way he expects me to just pretend it's all like it used to be. He can't expect me to do that! No! But then…why is he doing that? He's doing that. He's pretending like nothing happened. WHY?!_

~~~~~*~~~~~

"OW!"

Ron cringed, rubbing the spot on the back of his head where the tip of the quill had hit him. _Stupid Malfoy_, he thought. _I didn't DO anything! First, he tosses paper at me, then a rat's head, then a salamander foot, then Pufflurf slime, and now a QUILL! What, is he three years old, or something?_

That quill had hit him hard on the back of the head; the SHARP end of the quill, at that! And everyone around him, including Snape, had noticed it bounce off of his head, fly into the air, and land on Seamus's desk. But of course, Snape was predictably unfair. Drooping his greasy head and hook-nosed face to Ron's level, the Potions masters said curtly, "Five points, Mr. Weasley, for disrupting the class."

Ron kept his mouth shut. When Snape turned away, however, he grumbled to himself. Five MORE points? Already he had lost Gryffindor 10—he had spilled a few drops of his finished potion as he turned it in at the lesson's start, and later he had chucked an onion at Malfoy's head—and now five more! The lesson had only been going on for about 20 minutes!

Leaning down to pretend to take notes, Ron sighed. Regardless of all the annoyances during Potions and Quidditch practices—the Slytherins still tried to steal the field from the Gryffindors during practice time—he still couldn't manage to channel purely hateful energy and feeling towards Malfoy. There was still something more, something _not _malicious, that he felt towards Malfoy. He suspected that—although he tried to push the memory away as much as possible—his confusion had to do with the kiss Malfoy had tried giving him, that first night in the room, when Malfoy had disguised himself. Why, Ron wondered, would Malfoy attempt the kiss and show affection, but then be a total bastard the next time Ron saw him? It had become a pattern of sorts—Malfoy would be his hateful, snarky self for a while, and then he would show his true colors for a short interval of time, and then he would go back to being snarky, and so it would go, on and on and on… Why couldn't the Slytherin just make up his MIND to hate Ron, or not to hate Ron?

There were moments when Ron glanced at the other boy, and found the Slytherin glancing back. Ron always quickly looked away. It happened so quickly that Ron never realized he hadn't even glared or frowned until afterwards. The other day, he had bumped into the blonde on the way into the Great Hall, and could have almost sworn a sincere smile had shown itself upon that face. An unusual lack of appetite had hit him afterwards.

Tearing a corner off his notepaper, Ron scribbled down:

_Malfoy – you're still trying to scrape away those feelings with dishonesty, huh? Prat, you think I'm stupid or something? I see the way you stare at me. And stop throwing quills at me. I get the symbolism behind throwing something _long_ and _sharp_ and _pointy_ at me, you pillock._

Then he sent the note over to Malfoy. He couldn't stop a grin from lighting his face as he saw the shocked look on Malfoy's face when he read the letter, and the suspicious glance he shot at Ron as he opened it.

After class, Ron found himself pulled back into the classroom. As he'd expected, it was Malfoy. The other boy slammed the door shut behind Ron, and then pushed him down to sit at the desk across from him. Ron jumped a little as Draco stood up suddenly, a booted foot slamming hard against the floor. He realized that the Slytherin was angry. Not just annoyed, but angry – not quite furious, yet. Draco held up the note Ron had written, waving it in front of Ron's face. His voice loud in anger, Draco asked, "What the fuck are you talking about, Weasley? You babble on and on, and then you toss all these accusations at me, think you know what I mean when I do things, think you know what goes on in my head, but don't back up your theories with any proof except for your no-good, two-Knut-worth opinion!"

Ron couldn't help but laugh, seeing Draco. Those sharp gray eyes were narrowed to slits, that face paler than usual, those hands balled into fists in an unusual show of almost physical aggression, placed girlishly on his hips. Ron knew that the Slytherin was trying to hide the fact that part of the anger shown, and most of the external Malfoy people saw in public, was a fake. He was trying to prove to Ron that he was what Ron had once thought he was—a worthless bastard—because Draco felt that by being wrong (and about himself, especially), he had lost. Draco did not like the idea of Ron being right about Draco, even though what Ron said about whom Draco really was inside was the only way Draco could get to Ron, could have a chance with Ron at all. Ron wasn't quite sure how he knew this, but somehow, he did.

Laughing loudly, Ron felt his anger at the other boy and at so many other things that had happened recently drift away. This idea that the Malfoy Ron hated was real was all in Draco's head, in his mind – it was up to the Malfoy to make the fraud, the lie of what he was like, go away forever. Only Malfoy could banish his demons, the concepts that had been haunting rather than gifting him, for years. It was up to Draco to decide whether to be honest with himself, or not.

Before Malfoy could make a move to punish Ron for laughing, Ron got up, saying quietly, "You know that I know you. You showed yourself, how you wish you could be all the time, to me, so I probably know you better than you know yourself, now! So, don't go acting like my opinion is nothing. What I say makes sense, and you know it. What doesn't make sense is YOU! Make up your mind whether you hate me, or at least if you want to go on pretending to hate me or if you want to give in to…to…" Ron took a deep breath, finishing, "To whatever it is you feel."

He walked out of the room then, without another word.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Ron frowned, as he accidentally blotted the parchment he was writing on. Tossing away his quill, he stared dully as the inkblot spread, becoming larger and larger. "Damn it all!"

With a sweep of an arm, Ron brushed his belongings off the table and into his bag, not caring if the essay he'd been working on got wrecked. Then, glumly, he rested his chin on his hands, staring determinedly at a particular book on a shelf to his right.

Stupid Malfoy. Why did he have to be such an arse all the time? Ron growled. He never should have thought anything good about that Slytherin bastard! There wasn't a pinch of goodness in that stony heart. Ron should've known the wanker would turn around and yell like a bitch before stabbing Ron in the back like he had. _I never shoulda trusted him, the slimy, pale-faced little rat. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I HATE him!_

There was no point spending energy on Malfoy, Ron decided. The boy had shown the potential of being a good person at nighttime, but as soon as daylight broke, Malfoy was a monster. Why had Ron trusted that Malfoy would treat him differently, respect him, even after all that had happened? Ron was determined to not think about him, talk about him, or even so much as _say_ the name Malfoy.

Ron's chair suddenly tilted forward, causing his chest to slam into the table, winding him. Turning around, breathless, Ron wondered who would decide to play such a stupid joke. His ears flushed red, surprised, the frown slipped from his face as he mumbled, "…Malfoy?"

Malfoy smirked. His hands still rested on the arms of Ron's chair, all evidence pointing to him as the person that had decided to play yet another nasty joke on Ron. Of course, tipping a chair was one of the milder 'jokes', but still, Ron mused, Malfoy was obviously satisfied, judging by that smirk. Growling, Ron shoved Malfoy's hands off of his chair, and standing up, he raised a fist; his only desire was to wipe the smirk off of Malfoy's face as quick as he could.

However, his fist never ended up slamming into Malfoy. Or rather, it never slammed to hit Malfoy's stomach, jaw, or nose (Ron wasn't sure which part he wanted to hit). Instead, his fist slammed into the palm of Malfoy's hand, creating a loud smacking sound. Ron stared at his fist, and then looked at Malfoy. He'd been blocked! Why that little toad and his Seeker reflexes, stopping Ron's blow from hitting!

Ron was about to speak, his mouth open, when IT happened.

One moment, he was about to start yelling at Malfoy, his anger boiling so fast and so much he thought he would burst. The next moment, Malfoy kneed him in the groin. Gasping through the pain, Ron doubled over in shock. Merlin, how it hurt! A million expletives came to mind, but Ron was in too much pain to say any aloud. Squeezing his eyes shut, Ron tried to stop his eyes from watering. He let out a humiliating groan of pain as he fell to the floor on his knees. Trust Malfoy to do this when no one else was in the library to see it. The little coward, striking so dishonorably, at a time no one would have expected, at a spot Ron definitely hadn't expected to be hit at! Goddamn that little shit, he was going to KILL him!

Gritting his teeth, Ron attempted slowly to stand up. His legs felt like they'd had the jelly-legs hex put on them! Crouched low, his every limb wobbly, Ron panted with the effort, one thought in his mind: Kill Malfoy.

Before he could entirely recover and carry out his plan, though, Ron found himself shoved hard against a bookshelf. Spluttering and cursing, he was about to take the advantage away from Malfoy, when Ron noticed a few things. Firstly, those hands were rested on his hips, a place Ron found unusual, since it was obvious Malfoy hadn't the strength or the size to try and wrap his arms around Ron to crush him. Secondly, Malfoy hadn't punched or kneed him yet – not so much as a stomp on the toe! There was no sign of aggressiveness. And thirdly, that look in Malfoy's eyes, Ron noticed with increasing wariness, was _not_ fury! Or hatred, or anything of the like…

Ron gulped. What was Malfoy on about? What with all the weird experiences Ron had had with Malfoy recently, Ron wasn't sure what to think of the Slytherin, anymore. Was there a chance that Malfoy wasn't as evil as Ron thought? Seriously, what was with the changes in attitude? _Maybe Malfoy's just gone totally bonkers_, Ron thought. Assuming that to be the cause of it all, and not wanting to consider any other possibilities, Ron decided he didn't want a madman pinning him to a bookshelf.

But when Ron tried to push Malfoy away, he found the boy had latched onto him like a leech. There was no way the blonde was letting Ron get away! A furious struggle ensued, in which Ron tried every which way to get away from Malfoy, including stomping on toes, tugging hair, choking, attempting to do the same that Malfoy had done to him by kneeing him in the groin, and even biting the Slytherin in the neck! Nothing worked, though. Malfoy, who Ron found to be surprisingly strong, kept Ron pinned. Even worse was that Ron found that a strange result came of him biting the other boy. His teeth were against the other boy's skin digging in enough to draw blood, the smell of sweat, boot polish, and cologne almost sending Ron over the edge - it smelt so strange. Then, as Ron flicked a tongue out to lick a drop of blood away, that was when he heard it: a low moan.

Immediately Ron's head shot up, bumping Malfoy's chin in the process and causing a click of teeth. Eyes wide, Ron leaned away from Malfoy. He knew what kind of moan _that_ was. Heck, he was sixteen; he'd pleasured girls before! Of course, he'd never gone even close to 'all the way', but he was old enough to know what the moan symbolized: arousal. Pleasure. Lust. These were by far NOT feelings Ron wanted to make Malfoy feel!

And yet, when Ron looked down at Malfoy's neck, and saw a few drops of blood left, he couldn't help but hunger to lick them up. He knew how utterly wrong it was. The wrongness of it all made him shudder. But he still wanted to do it. He wanted to lean down and slowly lick the blood away, taste the salty tang rich on his tongue, revel in it, hear another moan come from that throat as a result. Ron shut his eyes tight. What on earth was he thinking? _Was_ he even thinking at all? What did he think he was doing, lusting after _Malfoy_? Could it get any worse?

Ron sucked in a harsh breath. His arms out, he gripped the books to either side of him for dear life, his head thrown back, eyes shut tight. Yes, it certainly could get worse! If he weren't definitely going out of his mind, he would say he was 100% sure that Malfoy's leg was pressing to his crotch. Repeatedly. The pressure was increasing with each grind. Grinding again. And again. Fuck, could the boy grind any harder? Ron wished he could. Oh, damn! Ron moaned. If Malfoy could grant all the other wishes that flooded into Ron's hormonal mindset at that moment, Ron would die happy. But wait; no…that position was physically impossible, wasn't it?

Finally, after a few moments more grinding, Ron gasped, "Stop." The grinding continued. "I said STOP!"

Malfoy stopped grinding. Exhaling heavily, Ron opened his eyes. He looked down at Malfoy, and opened his mouth to speak, when he suddenly found a pair of soft lips pressed against his. What the…!

Angry, Ron tried repeatedly to shove Malfoy away, with no success. Grumbling at his failure, he instead chose to vent out his anger through the kiss, pressing his lips hard in reply and combing his fingers through the blonde's hair as he did so.

Ron had never experienced a kiss like this. Not only was it from a boy, but also it was _passionate_. All the girls' kisses he'd ever gotten had been soft, gentle, firm, but never so…so wild! Those lips pressed so hungrily Ron feared being swallowed, that hot tongue begging entrance into his mouth, sliding to press its heated softness against Ron's firmly clamped closed lips again and again.

Another furious struggle ensued, in which Malfoy tried over and over to get his tongue in Ron's mouth, and Ron refused. However, eventually both boys' lips were so bloodied that someone had to lick, and in doing so Malfoy managed to edge his tongue in Ron's mouth.

It was the strangest, newest sensation. Ron had never dared slip a tongue in or let a tongue slip in before. Malfoy's tongue flitted here and there in his mouth, brushing every area, sliding hot and sensual against Ron's tongue. After less than a moment or two though, it became too much, and Ron pulled away quickly, gasping for breath like a fish out of water.

Ron opened his eyes once he'd recovered. He turned to see Malfoy walking away, hands brushing against immaculately clean robes for imaginary lint. Pulling his hair in frustration, Ron rushed to Malfoy's side. They walked like that for a few moments through the library, neither saying a word. At one moment, Ron realized his long strides were too much for the blonde—Malfoy had to walk quickly to try and match one of his steps. Ron chuckled. This didn't even earn him a glare, but he did notice Malfoy's chin tilt up a bit higher. Pompous prat.

Silent, Ron followed Malfoy out of the library, never turning his head to glance straight at the other boy, just as Malfoy never even spared him a single glance. It was as if he wasn't there.

Too furious to hold it in anymore, and wishing he didn't get so hard just by looking at the other boy for more than five seconds, Ron finally stopped walking. Before Malfoy could walk past, he grabbed the other boy by the shoulders, spinning the blonde around to face him.

Face and ears red as a tomato, Ron growled, "You know what? I like you. I actually _like_ you, all right? When we talked that one night, and you were honest, I liked you. You're really not all that bad. When we talk one on one like that, and you're not around any of the other Slytherins…you're really an okay bloke. Or at least, that's what I thought. But you might just have proved me wrong. Tell me something. Just one thing! Why'd you have to and make things so complicated? I see the way you're acting like you're somebody else. It's really fucking frustrating, you know. What _is_ your problem, Malfoy? One moment you're telling me to accept you as more than an enemy, a Slytherin, and a Malfoy, the next, you're showing all the cruel traits that I've previously attached to those labels, and being nothing but a fucked-up bastard to my face. Why show me who you really are, and then turn around and be a fucking shit head that everyone can't help but hate, including me? How do you switch from one to the other? I don't like this multiple personality game. Stop one, or kill the other, for fuck's sake!"

Frowning, Malfoy shoved past Ron, saying quietly, "Forget about it, Weasley."

Ron turned around, gaping as the other boy walked around the corner. Then, feeling the adrenaline rush through him again in anger, he ran after the other boy. He caught up soon. Standing in front of Malfoy, Ron stood with his arms crossed. He was surprised Malfoy didn't try and get past him. Cracking his knuckles, Ron snarled, "You didn't answer my question, Malfoy! I want an answer. Tell me. Why do you go on with the pretending crap? Why d'you have to go and make things so complicated?"

Sighing, Draco simply said in reply, "It's difficult the other way."

"That's the way it is. Life's like that, okay? You make mistakes, you have people reject you, you feel broken, you hate, your ego gets stomped on…but you keep going. Like dad and me mum say: Take what you get. Don't fake who you are. You don't want to be a fool, do you? You sit there, with everyone else watching you're back, like you can't relax. You're trying to be cool, but you're not. You look like a fool, to me! So tell me…why d'you have to go and make things so complicated?"

For a moment, all was silent. Ron stood completely still, his eyes locked with Malfoy's. Those eyes were oceans Ron felt he would drown in if he stared into them long enough. He found himself riveted to the sight of Malfoy, suddenly noticing every detail. The way Malfoy tilted his head slightly in thoughtfulness. The way the blonde bit a glossy, manicured nail, or moved his head slightly to get a strand of hair out of his vision. The way his hair and eyes seemed to glow ethereal silver in the light. Ron found himself speechless, for a moment.

Then, composing himself, Ron asked, "Well?"

Frowning, Draco looked straight at Ron, saying, "Well, what? Things are complicated for you because I like to take the easy way out. It's easier to pretend than to face the hell I'd face if I told and showed everyone what I told and showed you. I would leave myself vulnerable. I would have to watch my every step, to go about life the hard way. I don't want to do that. I refuse to do it the hard way, and you can't make me!"

Ron frowned. Shaking his head, he growled, "Fine then. You know what? Just forget about it. If you want to go on doing things easy, wasting away your life, then you do that. Whatever makes you comfortable. Just pretend like everything's the way it was between us, and continue being a jackass to the whole world. I don't give a shit, anymore."

With that said, Ron turned around, and walked back the way he'd come.

He felt eyes on his back, but forced himself to not look back. Looking back would be giving Malfoy another chance.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Grumbling to himself, Draco buttoned the last button of his white collared shirt, brushing his hands down it to make sure there were no wrinkles. As far as wearing the deep green overcoat went, he didn't feel like it just now. The tie would be enough. Besides, everyone knew he was Slytherin anyway. Uniform could get quite irritating sometimes, honestly!

Toweling his hair a bit to get it dry, he twisted the shower knob one more time to make sure the water didn't drip, and then tossed the towel away, in the direction of the pile of towels on a shelf by the entrance.

"HEY! What the-"

Draco jumped at the sudden voice. Who would be in the Quidditch shower room at this time? All the Gryffindors were off celebrating their win, and the Slytherins were off to dinner early; he was always the last one out, wanting to be alone during and after his shower. It was relaxing to have solitary peace and quiet after a match.

Turning around in one swift move, Draco swore under his breath. It was Ron. The boy stood a few feet away from Draco, a disgusted look on his face, holding the towel Draco had thrown in front of him, questioning. Draco looked away. He didn't have to give Ron an explanation—so what, he'd thrown a towel? Frowning, Draco turned back around, making sure to put his tie on as slowly as possible. He'd been avoiding Ron ever since their meeting in the library, because no matter how much he tried to forget, his mind eventually went back to the nights they had talked, and the closeness he'd felt to Ron; he wasn't sure if he was able to pretend in front of Ron that none of it mattered to him, when actually it did. It mattered a lot. He'd been rejected thrice now, and it hurt, but he was too proud and too angry to let Ron see it.

Besides, Draco figured, it was pointless trying to develop a relationship with the Gryffindor. Other than the high bias Ron obviously held against Slytherin House, there was their past of being enemies to consider. Draco had given Ron every reason to hate him, so it was perfectly understandable that Ron, who didn't understand him, would reject him, even though Draco had actually shown Ron his true feelings, and talked to the boy one on one, heart to heart. But then he'd been given another two chances, and realized that his words and actions had affected Ron. He'd thrown away those chances though, out of anger and fear.

Draco would never say it aloud, but he feared a lot of things. One of the things he'd once feared had been rejection – now, he needed not fear that, because he'd been through it thrice. Another thing he feared though was rejection from everyone else. He had felt secure and powerful around the Slytherins, his comrades, before Ron. Now, he'd lost that security around them, was always nervous, and knew that if he worked to develop his relationship with Ron like his heart desired, he would lose his power, and everything else he'd worked to achieve for so many years—a reputation, power, prestige, admiration. Everything his father wanted him to have. As for what HE wanted himself to have—Ron—it was hopeless to try and achieve that. Ron hated him. Again.

The truth was, however, that Draco did not want Ron to hate him. Draco did not desire Ron's hatred, but he'd bungled it up far too much in his first and second years, the years he'd tried to deny his feelings towards Ron, to go back. The entire time Draco had taunted and bothered Ron and his friends as much as possible, he had actually wanted to be Ron's friend. But the board was set, and there was no changing it: Weasleys hated Malfoys, and Malfoys hated Weasleys. It had been set in time this way far back in the history books. Ron had hated Draco as soon as he laid eyes on him, even not knowing Draco. And then Draco had fed this hatred by repeatedly proving to Ron that he was exactly who Ron judged him to be. Draco hadn't wanted to, but he hadn't known what else to do, hadn't wanted to go against his father, and had thought he could push his attraction to Ron away.

Draco had found himself unable to do this, though, and after being rejected the first and the second times, and now, after the third time, he figured he might as well continue to feed that hate.

In truth, though, Draco was sick of it all. He didn't want to pretend to be someone else, didn't want to pretend to hate Ron, to pretend nothing had happened. But he had to. Just the sight of that boy made Draco unknowing of what to do with himself, and he hadn't stopped Ron from concluding that he would not change himself for Ron's sake, so maybe he was better off being, in Ron's eyes, the epitome of evil.

Draco blinked. How long had he been standing here? Apparently, it was a long time, for he realized as he finishing tying his tie that Ron was not standing behind him anymore. The sound of running water met Draco's ears, and he realized with a shiver that Ron was in the shower, as he glanced to the left and noticed a pile of clothes and a towel sitting beneath the towel rack.

Picking up his belongings, Draco tried to resist the temptation to look to his right, where the sound of the running water came from. Slowly, he picked up his Firebolt, sliding it into its special broom case, gripping the handle hard. He threw his green overcoat over his shoulder, and stuffed his Quidditch uniform in a duffel bag. A smile turned up the corners of his mouth slightly as he heard the distinctive sound of Ron humming something while showering; it sounded like a Celestina Warbeck song.

Hefting his bag over his shoulder, Draco prepared to walk out of the room. He saw a puddle of water in front of him a moment too late, and before he could catch himself, he tripped, sliding across the floor a ways, and finding he had water soaking into his left sock a moment later.

A loud laugh came from the shower stall Ron was occupying, and Draco heard the boy mutter to himself, "Finally someone _else_ trips…"

Trying to ignore this, Draco got up, almost sliding in the water again, causing Ron to laugh even more. Indignant at the roaring laughter, Draco tossed away his things, marching up to the shower stall. Angrily, he yanked back the shower curtain, prepared to chide the other boy for daring to laugh; usually he didn't trip, Seekers were graceful and agile; he had a good sense of balance, unlike _some_ people. He needed to vent out some anger at the other boy, to make Ron mad; it was the only way he would feel better about himself, was proving how he continuing to be Ron's enemy brought him satisfaction. Draco prepared to yell.

But Draco never got anything but an asphyxiated breath out, for he found that through the steam he caught glimpses of tanned, bare skin. It felt like a cloth was stuck down his throat; Draco found he couldn't quite breathe properly anymore, all of a sudden. Ron's usually mussed hair was now pressed flat against his head, the hair at the nape of his neck wet and curling. Somehow, that red seemed to blare out even more than usual in its wetness, making Draco unable to break his stare at it for a moment.

Freckles were much more interesting, though, really. Starting at the Gryffindor's neck, Draco followed the trail of dots downward with his gaze, taking in every curve and every movement of the other boy's body. The freckle trail swarmed at the tip of Ron's nose (which Draco couldn't see from where he stood behind Ron, but knew to be there), and then crept down his neck in tiny, erratic streams, before dancing out along his back and arms in pairs and threes, forming triangular-shaped spots of brown, and a litter of tiny specks on the top of Ron's hands. Draco found himself gaping open-mouthed at the sight of that surely soft, smooth skin, tight against toned muscles gained from much physical work, covered almost everywhere with the most lovely brown and gold freckles, each of which Draco wished he could cover in soft caresses with his mouth.

Before Draco could look any further, or get more than a glimpse of an appealing and yes, also freckled arse, Ron swore loudly, driving Draco's attention away from the body before him. He realized he'd only been standing there for a moment, too shortly for Ron to realize he was there. He looked down as he heard the clatter of something fall to the floor; whatever it was, it was the cause for Ron's upset now. Bending down, uncaring of the few drops of water that hit him, Draco grabbed the object before it could slide past him across the wet floor. Grabbing it, he lifted it up, and saw it to be a razor. It was simple, dark blue in color. Draco wondered why Ron didn't just bother shaving magically – it was much faster, that way.

Draco was about to get up from his crouch, when he froze. Ron had turned around to retrieve his razor, only to find Draco crouching in front of him. Breath held, razor gripped so tight in his hand he thought he would break it, Draco didn't dare move an inch, knowing that he was the closest to a nude Ron, and a nude Ron showing frontal assets, he'd probably ever be. He also realized that a slight movement of his head upward and to the right would cause his lips to touch a part of Ron that the touching of would probably be dangerous. But the act following such a touch, if the touch was accepted, would be an act of lust that Draco had imagined a surprisingly few amount of times. His tongue became restless just at the combined thoughts of sucking off, and of Ron.

Ron, too, had obviously also realized the implications of the positions both he and Draco were in, for he immediately jumped backward in shock. The razor almost fell from Draco's hands when Ron began yelling, yelling with an anger that Draco hated for the way it stung and for the way it torturously made him more aware of the growing fire burning in his groin.

"Malfoy, what-what…WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"

Draco forced himself to smirk, and stood up. Dangling the razor in front of the other boy, he drawled, "Don't flatter yourself, Weasley. I was just picking up your razor."

Reaching out, Draco offered the other boy the razor. Looking up into the other boy's eyes (and forcing himself not to look anywhere south), he was surprised to see not hatred in Ron's eyes, but fear. Those blue eyes were wide, radiating emotions Draco recognized as not only fear, but also curiosity, shock, and questioning. It was with elation that Draco realized he was not being treated with hatred, or worse, and that he faced not a person who had reveled in rejecting him, but rather a person who was just as confused, and maybe even as scared, as he was. Smiling, Draco gently took hold of the other boy's wrist, pulling it forward, and turned that hand palm upwards. His fingers trembling at the contact with the other boy's skin—which he found to be soft, wet, and warm—Draco placed the razor in Ron's palm, and curled those fingers around it.

When he was sure Ron had a good grip on the razor, Draco stepped away, and turning around, he picked up his belongings, and walked out of the room, just as he'd originally planned. He said not a single word, and didn't look back. He noticed, as he closed the door, that the sound of shower water had stopped.

There was no evidence that anything unusual had happened, except for a new puddle of water on the floor, and a redheaded adolescent who felt more like a child slumping to sit down on the shower floor. Shaking his head of a few water drops, Ron dropped the razor, staring at both his palms, and the red mark left on one. And then, not quite knowing why, except maybe it was because he was confused, he began to cry.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Ron didn't look up as Harry sat beside him. It was dinnertime, and Hermione was at the library—or at least, that's where Ron guessed she was, because she wasn't here at lunch, and if she were going to be, she would be. Stuffing another forkful of pasta into his mouth, Ron began to chew, staring down at his plate, refusing to look up at anyone. A few people called his name, but he ignored them. Ginny gave him a pat on his shoulder as she passed by, and for a moment, Ron succumbed to emotion and reached back to place his hand over hers. But then she walked away, and Ron moved his hand back to his fork, blinking back tears.

He hated crying. He'd been doing it way too much the past few days. But he couldn't help it. Every time he walked into Potions class, it was like a fist clenched at his stomach, and every night under the covers, he couldn't help but remember his meetings with Malfoy—no, Draco, because he couldn't stand calling the boy Malfoy anymore, it made it seem as if everything was normal between them—in the library, hospital wing, and Quidditch showering room. He had tried to deny the existence of their talk in the classroom the days after it happened, but it had been too hard, and he had finally given in and admitted that he couldn't forget it.

After all his stewing over their talk, Ron never had really come to any conclusions, except that that talk had changed the way he thought about Malfoy, and that he couldn't ignore that their talk had happened. He still hated Malfoy, in a way, for being an annoying git, but he didn't hate Draco Malfoy for being a Slytherin, or for being a Malfoy, because he'd realized that there was more to both of those, and that Draco was more than any label you could give him. Ron had banished his fear, and simply tried not to think about Draco Malfoy at all, and when he did see the other boy, he looked at him with a glance that held no hate, and said nothing in reply to the other boy's taunts and continued game of pretend. Apparently, Draco had not noticed this, or didn't give a damn, because he continued pretending that all was the same, that a relationship of hatred still formed the wall between them. Actually though, Ron had realized, it was not a wall of hatred that stood between them, but rather, a wall of other emotions that he knew he, for one, felt (he didn't know if Draco felt them, too), as well as the continued game of pretend Draco wouldn't stop.

In the Quidditch room, that day though, Ron's fear had returned. He had been interrupted in a moment and on a day when all felt like it was going well. But then he had felt eyes on the back of his head, eyes raking down the sight of his bare skin. And it felt like his heart had stopped, for a moment, and he'd known exactly who it was. In his nervousness, he'd dropped his razor, and that was what had started the turmoil Ron was currently going through. If only he hadn't dropped that blasted razor! But he had, and then Draco had not left as Ron had hoped, but had picked up the razor! Ron had turned around, and lost his breath in a single moment. For Draco knelt before him, the razor in his hands, and the implications of their positions had become all too clear.

Never had lust filled Ron so much. Ideas had flown to mind, spreading like wildfire. His breath hitching, for a few moments, all he had done was stare. That lithe body, with its pale skin, trousers fitting all too snugly, the top button of that shirt undone, sleeves pulled up to reveal milky white wrists, the white-blonde hair falling to shadow one eye – for a moment, the image of Draco Malfoy had become all too appealing. Ron had wanted to reach out, touch that soft skin, stare into the eyes beneath those girlishly long lashes and communicate what he felt, communicate it all not just through words, but through the touching of his mouth to Draco's. Ron's ears turned red just at the thought.

Ron shook his head, turning his mind away from the swirl of confusion, and looked up as Harry said his name. For a moment, all Ron could see was Harry mouthing his name, but then the real world returned in full force, and he heard Harry saying over and over, "Ron. RON. _RON!_"

Putting down his fork, suddenly not hungry anymore, Ron turned to look at his friend. Then, his gaze veered away, and his head drooped, as he asked quietly, "What? What is it, Harry?" This was it. It was THE moment. It was the either the moment Harry told Ron that he knew what was going on between he and Draco, or the moment that Harry said he wouldn't let Ron out of his sight, Ron's loss of appetite was worrying him so much.

To Ron's surprise, though, Harry didn't say either of those things. Instead, smiling in such a way that Ron had to look at him, Harry said, "Ron, I think you should go to the hospital wing. You look a bit peaky."

Nodding, Ron dropped his fork, suddenly feeling actually a bit nauseous. As people stared at him as he walked out of the Great Hall, he wondered if his face was a bit green. Not wanting to actually go to the Hospital Wing, Ron instead rushed to the common room. Once there, he knew his stomach was definitely upset, and saying the password as quick as he could, he rushed into the common room. There was no way he was going to be able to rush up the stairs to the boys' dormitory and to the bathroom! Turning to his left, Ron tried to rush up the stairs to the girls' dormitory. But, as he'd experienced last year, the stairway did not accept males. With a jolt that almost made him throw up his pasta then and there, the stairway jumped up, forming a hill, and throwing Ron into the air to slide slowly down it.

The ceiling was spinning, and Ron was sure that his face was now green. Holding his hand to his stomach, he closed his eyes tight, pursed his lips, trying to ignore the rumblings of his disturbed stomach, and the nasty taste growing in his mouth. Oh, if only he'd learned to conjure a toilet from Fred and George! He hadn't known he'd ever need the spell, but if he ever did need that spell, now was it!

Surely, Ron thought, he was going to die. There was no point in living anymore, right? He felt awful—physically and mentally—he had no goals in life, and would never achieve any of his dreams. Really, he should die. His body should just fail him, right now, at this very second.

But it didn't. Instead, Hermione rushed down the stairs, babbling words of concern that Ron didn't hear, and helped him up the stairs. Then, before Hermione could say another word, Ron rushed to the nearest door, hoping it was to the bathroom. Thankfully, it was. He quickly pushed the door shut with a foot, and then leant toward the toilet.

Out came the pasta, and all the green that had been coloring his face earlier.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

Draco wasn't quite sure that he was doing the right thing. Then again, what WAS the right thing? Certainly, doing the "Malfoy thing" was not the right thing. In that case, he _was_ doing the right thing. Talking to Ron about the situation between them was the right thing, because a Malfoy usually wouldn't. If Draco were doing what he should do, what his father wanted, he wouldn't be standing in front of the frame to the Gryffindor common room, he would on the way back to the dungeons, preparing to hurl more insults at Ron, and treat him like scum. Draco had decided that he didn't want to do that anymore, though. He wanted to fix the situation.

After lots of thinking, Draco had decided that he couldn't leave it as it was between them. He had realized that Ron was also confused about the whole situation, and it seemed Ron had realized that things had changed between he and Draco, and neither boy could change them back. So, Draco had decided that, once and for all, it was time to fix up the situation, for better or for worse. He didn't want to have to pretend to be someone else in front of Ron anymore. He didn't want to have to hold in the swirl of feelings he felt towards Ron, and he wanted to figure out, with Ron's help, what both of them felt (because he was confused on his own feelings, as well as, of course, Ron's feelings). Then, Draco could go on with life, and not stew over how he should treat Ron, or guess about what Ron felt towards him.

Draco couldn't help but feel humiliated, standing in front of the Gryffindor frame. He had been hoping that Longbottom or someone intimidated by him would let him in, but as it was, it was still dinnertime, so there was no one about. So Draco waited.

It seemed ages that he stood in front of the frame. He stood alone, wondering what Ron would say, wondering how he would phrase his question, wondering who would come to the door, wondering what he would say if Potter came along after dinner and saw him here, wondering why he gave a damn about Potter, wondering how he'd come to give many damns about Ron, and then wondering if Ron gave a damn about him.

Finally, the door opened. Standing there, a First-Aid Kit in her hand, her hair more tousled than ever, was Granger. Draco had forced himself to think of her as Granger, for Ron's sake. Ignoring the stare-turned-glare of the girl standing before him, Draco spoke before Hermione could. Clearing his throat, his stance straight, his expression neutral, he said firmly, "I need to see…ah…" Draco paused. Did he dare call Ron by his first name in front of Granger?

Shaking her head, Hermione started closing the door, saying, "No one's here but Ron and I." The frame started closing. Draco thought frantically, but came up with no ideas. Just before the frame closed, he thrust his hand through the gap left, and wrenching it open, he threw himself into the Gryffindor common room.

It was quite embarrassing to crouch on the floor in front of a wide-eyed Granger, really it was. Holding in his temper, Draco stood up, and brushing himself off, said curtly, "Weasley. Where is he?"

"Why do you want to know?"

That was it. Draco was not a patient person; he refused to wait any longer!

"Damnit, Granger, where is he? I need to see him. It's important! You wouldn't understand."

The girl raised a quizzical brow, and then, turning around, walked up the stairway. Frowning, she said, "I won't let you fight out some stupid conflict with him. He's ill. Fight with him some other time. In class, maybe; a detention would serve you well, Malfoy."

"Damnit, Granger, let me TALK to him!"

Draco started rushing up the stairs after Hermione, and had almost reached the top, when suddenly the stairway formed a hill beneath him, and tossed him to the ground. He was left lying on the floor, trying to regain his breath, as Hermione shut the door behind her.

~~~~~*~~~~~

"Herm, let him in!"

"WHAT?"

Ron groaned. Why did the stupid Slytherin come and visit, anyway? This was certainly unexpected, and unannounced. He wished he could send Draco away, but he couldn't, and he didn't want to. If the situation went on as it was any longer, Ron felt he would explode.

"Hermione, please! Let him in. We need to talk. Besides, you should go to dinner."

Hermione placed the tray with orange juice and the First Aid Kit on it at her bedside table. Ron's shoes were at the foot of the bed, and he lay with a cold cloth on his forehead. Hermione had decided that Madam Pomfrey had too many other things to do beside cure Ron's flu, and she wanted to see if she could cure Ron by herself. Ron felt too miserable to protest.

Sighing, Hermione replied, "Okay, Ron. I'll let him in, and I'll let you two talk alone. But promise you'll tell Harry and me what this is all about afterward, okay?"

Ron, feeling even sicker to his stomach at the prospect, nodded. Laying his head back down, he sighed, saying, "Will do. Can you let him in now, please? I know there's anti-boy and anti-Other-Houses spells on the stairs, but…maybe you can levitate him up?" Ron laughed just at the image in his head at the thought.

A few minutes later, and Ron had almost fallen asleep. He woke up with a jolt, however, when the dormitory door slammed close. Ron looked to his right. Standing by the door, his hair in disarray, a bruise on his right temple, a hand-mark on his left cheek, was Draco. Smoothing down his clothes, he continued to try and look dignified, chin high in the air, every step of booted heel on carpeted floor calculated to sound intimidating. It didn't work though. Ron, laughing, asked Draco, "What on earth were you thinking? Coming over unannounced, all dressed up."

The blonde stopped by the bed, pulling up a chair to sit at Ron's right. Ron couldn't help but notice how close the chair was to the bed.

"What do you mean, all dressed up? These are my normal clothes."

Ron smiled, closing his eyes. Draco's voice was soft, and gentle, much sweeter than it would be if they were out in the hallways in public. Part of Ron felt angry that Draco could pretend to be someone he wasn't in front of everyone else, whereas part of him approved of the pretense—it made his and Draco's dying enmity, now when displayed but a game of pretend, seem more realistic. And it also made him feel a little special. But most of all, Ron just wanted to DO something about the situation. He was sick of lying around _waiting_ for something to happen that would end his confusion.

Ron closed his eyes, tossing the wet cloth from his forehead onto the bedside table. Grumbling, he pushed down another wave of nausea, and turned to lie on his stomach. For a moment, not a single sound was heard but a rustle of Draco moving, and then—Ron's eyes widened as the other boy sat beside him, and began to slowly but firmly give Ron a back massage. Frowning, although he had to admit to himself that it was quite soothing, Ron asked angrily, "What are you doing?"

"Helping you relax."

Ron couldn't help but do just that as Draco began to massage harder, knuckles pressing into Ron's skin through his shirt, hands kneading so hard Ron let out a sigh. It felt good. But for a moment, he had thought Draco was going to pound him then and there. The massaging stopped, and Draco simply sat, one hand still on Ron's back, fiddling with his shirt tag, and the other laying on the bed.

Ron tilted his head, watching as Draco pushed the covers back, and slid underneath the blankets. For a moment, Ron just stared, his eyes flitting from that head of blonde hair, to those slim, callused hands. He quickly looked away when the other boy looked back, however. Burying his head in his pillow, Ron tried to breathe evenly. Draco's leg by his seemed as noticeable as a burning torch, and the hand on his shoulder and the prospect of it moving were suddenly more scary and exciting than any spider could ever be. Taking a deep breath, Ron turned to lie on his back, upsetting the hand on his shoulder. His eyes closed tight, he slid a trembling hand down the other boy's side until he reached Draco's hand, which he then gripped tightly with his.

After a few moments of silence, in which both boys lay like this, neither moving nor looking at each other, Ron asked, "So? What…what do you plan to do? About the whole situation between us, I mean."

Draco turned to look at him. Ron found that he couldn't look away from that grey gaze anymore. It was like those eyes were magnets he was drawn to. He'd known for quite a while that there was depth to the Slytherin, more to Draco than just the labels Ron had given him, but Ron still wasn't sure what it was he saw every time he met eyes with Draco. The boy was good at remaining a mystery no matter how many times you stared at him.

"What do I plan to do? I…I guess I just plan to be the bloke you like, and not someone else. I won't be a bastard anymore. I…I want you to _keep_ liking me. But I plan to be myself, too. I won't become a Gryffindor, or something stupid like that. And I also plan to…"

"To what?"

Draco smirked, and all of a sudden, Ron found that he liked that smirk. Ron knew there was a mischievous side to the Slytherin, a cunning, and had wondered this entire time where it had gone. When Draco smirked, however, Ron knew that that mischievousness was still there. He felt the blood rush to his ears as Draco leant in, so that his mouth was right by Ron's ear. A shiver ran through him as Draco whispered, "I plan to kiss you."

Then Draco's mouth slid to plant a feather-soft kiss on Ron's cheek. Ron, his eyes closed, found that he had missed the touch of those lips, so gentle, so smooth. But really, a kiss on the cheek? How disappointing! As Draco straddled him—Ron found himself quite keen to the idea of that body so close—Ron murmured, "C'mon, on the cheek? You are _so_ disappointing."

Grabbing Draco's tie with a hand, Ron pulled the other boy close. For a moment, he just stared into the deep depths of those gray eyes. Then, he pressed his eager mouth to Draco's.

There was a fury to the kiss, all the pent-up whirlwind of emotions spilling out to transform into a violence that made the kiss all the more lustful. Never in all his years had Ron ever found a mouth so important to him as Draco's was, never a locking of lips feeling so perfect, so meant. A need that had been simmering inside him for far too long exploded, making him press his mouth all the harder to Draco's. In that single kiss, Ron found himself hurled into another world, the world that was Draco, the air around Draco, his lips, his tongue, his heartbeat fast against Ron's own, the smell of sweat and cologne suddenly inviting, because Ron's world suddenly revolved around Draco. Shivers ran up in delightful parties up his arms, his legs, and his spine, that tongue, that mouth against his so delicious, so hot and yet still…Ron found he wanted _more_.

They broke apart, and Ron leaned back, his head cradled by the palm of Draco's hand, those fingers still massaging, sending electric sparks through him with every touch. Ron was unsure of whether it was real or not, if it all was truly happening. A kiss to his throat came, a reassurance that, yes, Draco was there, was Ron's, owned Ron, was so entirely delicious, so hot, so breathtakingly, profoundly _there_, available to give Ron the _more_ he desired.

When Draco's soft lips brushed his collarbone area in a flurry of soft kisses, Ron found himself seemingly frozen, unable to move. How could anyone be so fascinated by _him_, of all people? How could someone value his words, his thoughts, his skin, so much? Draco portrayed in his actions and his glances the feelings that he could or would not say in words: Ron was very special to Draco. It was hard for Ron to fathom this; he had never defined himself as special. He was the boy that was as non-special as anyone could be! He'd never done anything great, said anything worth quoting, or anything of the like! He was plain, just a Weasley, just a redhead, just a Gryffindor, just a boy, just RON, and yet it seemed Draco would never link the word 'just' with his name. Being with Draco, feeling special to Draco even though he'd done nothing but be himself, it seemed right. It seemed right to let the boy love him, to accept that there was something between them.

Ron looked down as Draco looked up, resulting in the two boys bumping noses. Draco laughed, the first real laugh Ron had ever heard from him. Then Draco pressed his mouth to Ron's. For a moment, both boys simply reveled in each other, eyes closed, the touch of mouth to mouth suddenly not as simple as either had imagined, and much more sweet.

Still smiling, Draco rested his arms on Ron's chest, and propping his chin on top of his hands, he said, "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did."

Draco rolled his eyes. "No, really. Can I ask you a question? One semi-serious, kind of, and one…a thought of mine that comes to mind far too much."

Ron sat up slightly, getting more comfortable. "Sure. Go ahead. Ask away!"

"Ok. Question number one, the semi-serious one: Can I call you Ron?"

Ron blinked. Of all the things involving Draco that impacted him like a blow to the stomach, somehow, this simple thing impacted Ron the most. It made the situation they were in very clear, and a little bit frightening, too. _But also_, Ron thought, smiling, _it's a really brilliant, neat sort of idea. Draco calling me Ron? I already think of him as Draco in my head, maybe he does the same with me. I guess it depends on whether…_

Clearing his throat, Ron decided to voice his thoughts. "I think it depends on whether we're going to divulge our situation to our…well, our friends and whatnot. I mean, we're way too involved to back away from it now…right?" A pang of fear shot through Ron at the thought of abandoning the growing relationship he and Draco had.

"Right. I can call you Ron, and they'll just have to learn to deal with it. That sound all right to you?"

Ron thought about it for a moment. He, telling Hermione and Harry about all of this? His stomach twisted at the thought. But damn it, it had to be done. There was no way he was going to hide things from his friends. That would get someone hurt, in the end, and he didn't want anyone hurt!

Ron nodded, saying with a smile, "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds all right. Call me Ron."

"OK…Ron."

Draco breathed the name cautiously, slowly, as if it might be a sin to break the silence, to dare and acknowledge the understanding they shared, the feelings that linked them, as real, and out in the oxygen for others to breathe in.

Sitting up to lean against the head of the bed, Ron waved a hand in front of his face, the heat in the room seeming to surround him like a cloud. Slowly, with fumbling, impatient fingers, he began to unbutton his shirt. One button…two…three…four…five…

Ron glanced up, to find those now familiar gray eyes watching his every movement, staring at his revealed skin as if desiring to become one with his very pores. He became speechless immediately, the flame of desire burning hotter in his groin as he stared at Draco staring at him.

Then, pretending he hadn't noticed Draco staring at him, Ron continued unbuttoning, now doing so even slower than before. Each button somehow made the mood tenser, rather than less, for Ron was unsure what inevitable movement of Draco's he should expect, once the shirt was off. Unable to stop himself from grinning, Ron dared a glance at Malfoy, even as he shrugged his shirt from his shoulders. Draco was still staring at him. The Slytherin still had a bit of dignity – he was trying to be subtle, and his mouth wasn't open, and his hands weren't trembling, but Ron could tell, somehow. Draco's stare slid over him like a welcoming cooling from the hot air, and every muscle in that body was tense, clenched tightly. The trousers on Malfoy were tighter in his nervous fidgeting. Ron bit his lip hard at that thought, his body immediately alert. Shit, he'd just looked at Malfoy's crotch to try and see _how_ tight the trousers fit! Ron's breath hitched; now it was way too obvious that he couldn't control himself.

Ron bit on his lip even harder, resisting the urge to pounce on the other boy. Squirming, he asked breathily, "So…your other question?" A low moan got trapped in his throat, transforming instead into a growl. How could Draco be so arousing with all his clothes ON? Maybe it was because Draco, too, was currently squirming – trying to hide it, and failing. Squirming was suddenly an enticement.

"My other question," said Draco, "was…"

Ron gasped as those teeth scraped slowly up his neck, the sharpness, and eagerness of the movement sending a thrilling shiver through him. A whimper came from him as Draco's tongue slid against his ear, tickling. That hot breath against his ear, coupled with a whisper of his name from memorable mouth, caused Ron to shudder. His fingers gripped the sheets and pillows around him so hard they tore like claws, bringing up pieces of cotton cloth and soft feathers, which floated around the room and made it all seem more dreamlike. It struck Ron that the color red Gryffindors were famed for was romantic – or, at the least, a color symbolizing passion. A humiliating gasp broke from his lips as Draco's hand began to slide down his chest, even as a pair of pearly white teeth and hot, moist tongue focused on giving him a hickey. Ron gave a low moan, gasping for breath in the face of such inexorable arousal.

Finally, Ron tore himself away, sitting up straight. Glancing down at Draco, who still lay down – his face alarmingly close to Ron's thigh – Ron asked, "So? What was your question? … You," he gulped audibly, "never quite finished."

~~~~~*~~~~~

Draco smirked. He never had finished his question, had he? That smooth skin littered with an array of brown-gold freckles had been far too distracting. He half couldn't believe that his fantasy, a time to carry out all other, detailed fantasies, was coming true. He was in a room, alone, with Ron, a Ron who accepted him.

Smiling, his hand on Ron's arm, fingers ghosting over freckles as he spoke, Draco said, "My question is…well, it's about your freckles, actually."

Immediately, Draco noticed, Ron became defensive.

"What, you hate them? You refuse to let me call you Draco unless I shave them off my skin? They're just stupid dots, you know! I hate 'em too, you know, but YOU'RE not the one who has to deal with them! I don't see why people who don't have freckles have such a thing against them. And—"

Draco smiled, saying, "Actually, I have nothing against your freckles."

He chuckled as Ron, eyes wide, turned to stare, his mouth hanging open. "Really?"

"Really. I like your freckles." Draco gave a kiss to the top of Ron's hand as he did this, noticing that if he sucked slightly, and added a swipe of tongue, the other boy stiffened immediately, and got that look on his face that Draco loved – a mixture of shock, confusion, and pleasure, in which his mouth opened slightly and his eyes to place a hand on the other boy's belt, Draco smirked at the shock in the other boy's eyes, and, beginning to unbuckle the belt, he leant close. A hand suddenly clasped Draco's tightly, and Draco found his hands pulled away from Ron's belt. An anger simmering down deep within him, Ron growled, "Don't. The decision to unbuckle that belt is _mine_. Now, what's the question?"

Draco smirked. _THIS_ was the fiery redhead he desired, _THIS_ was the Ron he wanted to share a bed with. He loved getting Ron riled up; the boy was so gorgeous in his anger. That fury made him all the more delectable, somehow. But he was also gorgeous in his innocence, his inexperience, and his eagerness for more. Nodding, Draco moved his hands slowly away from that belt, and instead, slid his palms slowly up the other boy's torso, to rest on Ron's shoulders.

Staring straight into that sapphire gaze, Draco whispered, "My question is…how far down do your freckles go? Are they…everywhere?"

Those blue eyes went the widest Draco had ever seen. Several things happened at once, at that moment. Firstly, Draco realized that, as he'd leaned closer to Ron, he had caused himself to straddle the other boy. This opportune position made him able to test how his words had affected Ron – the second thing Draco realized, which was that there was an undeniable, sudden hardness pressing against him. And third, that he had also elevated his own lust to extraordinary heights.

His ears flushing a deep red, Ron stared at Draco, and stammered, "I…y-your question…err, well, I…the freckles…I, I mean, you, you…. I mean, god, damn it…ah, yes. You know. Ah…yes. My answer…is…is yes."

It was Draco's turn to stare, and stammer, a bit. His ever-famous Malfoy composure slipping, he blurted, "YES? You mean…the freckles, they…do…?"

Ron grinned at Draco's loss of composure, and nodding, his ears still bright red, he said, "Yes, yes. Th-they do. The freckles. They go…all the way down. Everywhere. Even…um, there. Yeah. Everywhere."

Draco found himself at a sudden loss for words. His cheeks flushed, his hands trembling, trousers tight against him, all he could do was stare for a moment, and imagine…god, yum. Everywhere! Finally, the question he'd been wondering about forever – answered!

Smirking, Draco slid off of Ron, and then, slowly, ever so slowly, moved trembling hands down Ron's thighs. The boys' breathing matched—quick, panting gasps, the only sound that split through the air of the otherwise silent room. Trousers tight against him, Draco paused for a moment, trying to focus on the task of getting the redhead out of those trousers, rather than focusing on himself.

Gasping to get breath into his lungs, his hands on Ron's belt, Draco said, "You know what I really want to do? Other than get this belt unbuckled I mean. I want to lick."

Draco was sure Ron was wondering if his heart beat as fast as Ron's at that moment. Gulping audibly, Ron asked in a raspy voice, "Lick…what?"

"Your freckles. Every single one of them. Should I start at the top?"

A nod was Ron's answer.

Clambering back upward, Draco smiled, and then began at the top, with Ron's face. He wasn't sure if he was in a dream, or not, as he caressed each and every one of the freckles with his mouth. Feathers floated around he and Ron, and the scents of sweat, cologne, and a light rose smell the breeze carried from a nearby vase wafted to Draco's nose. As Draco proceeded south, making a trail of bites down Ron's neck, he heard a low, satisfying moan. Minutes later, Draco was at Ron's stomach, so eager he was. A tongue dipped in his navel made Ron laugh hysterically, and for a few moments, Draco simply reveled in the sound of that laughter.

Draco asked Ron quietly, "Can I get rid of your belt now?"

The very air seemed to still, and all comprehension of anything other than that face, framed by curling red, exited Draco's mind. Then, slowly, a smile beginning to twist his lips, Ron nodded.

The room was so silent, it seemed to suffocate both boys, the only sound a delightful snap and whoosh, as Draco undid Ron's belt, and then slowly slid it away, tossing it to the floor. There was a moment in which Draco was unsure of what to do, afraid he would be unable to please Ron. But then he glanced up at Ron, and the sight of that soft tongue licking those luscious lips—confirming that Ron's throat was as dry with need as Draco's—was somehow encouraging.

Draco moved to slide his tongue near the other boy's hip, smirking as an agonized whimper came from Ron. He could feel the hardness of the redhead's erection pressing against him. Licking even more viciously, Draco purposely pressed slightly down on that hardness, while pretending not to notice that he had. Every lick he gave to the strip of unusually white skin by Ron's waistline and the results that he received for it were extremely satisfying. Finally, though, Ron became too much to resist. Plus, the other boy squirmed and bucked so much Draco didn't think he could avoid it any longer; not that he wanted to in the slightest! He brushed his hands against the redhead's crotch, as if accidentally, as he slid the trousers off of Ron. Then he continued licking, moving up slightly.

Suddenly the other boy slid off the bed, kicking away his trousers. Grabbing Draco by the collar, Ron shoved the blonde hard against the nearest wall, saying hoarsely, "I know you like to torture people, but do you have to be so damn slow? I'm not a patient person, you know."

Draco nodded, moaning at the other boy's mouth on his skin, saying, "I know. That's the point. Then you get even more impatient and you…"

Merlin, this boy was good! A humiliating gasp broke from Draco's throat as Ron's hips swiveled against his just…so…and suddenly his hands were at the redhead's back, nails scraping down the soft skin, his head thrown back to let that tongue work at his neck. Slowly, slowly, Ron stopped licking, and leant heavily against Draco, his eyes closed, his panting sending puffs of hot air past Draco's neck. Draco saw his opportunity at that moment. He placed his hands over Ron's hips, prepared to slide the last bit of clothing away from that beautiful freckled skin…

The glorious moment was broken by the sound of thumping feet in the common room downstairs, and then the muffled mumble of voices ascending the stairway. Dinner was over, and people were coming back into the common room, and into their dormitories. Both boys sat frozen for a moment, eyes wide in horror. Then Draco quickly dove away, even as Ron slid his shirt and trousers back on. Draco was about to slide beneath the bed, however undignified an act it was, when Ron grabbed his hand.

Turning around, a brow raised in questioning, Draco asked, "Ron, what…?"

"Come with me," the redhead said, smiling. Draco didn't know how the boy managed to smile, when they'd just been interrupted so abruptly. But Ron's whisper of, "We'll continue later" and the sexy smirk that accompanied it was reassuring.

Stepping out onto the stairway landing with Ron, Draco glanced down at the stairs.

In a moment of clarity, both boys realized the predicament they were in. The stairs to the girls' dormitory was unable to be accessed by males, whether they were stepping up, or down.

"Shit," Draco breathed, "We're trapped."

Draco glanced at Ron, expecting a similar reaction to his, but he found the unexpected. Instead of being angry, Ron simply shrugged, saying, "They'll stay down there awhile. We're stuck here. Guess what that means for us? More time alone."

As he pressed his mouth to Ron's eagerly, Draco couldn't help but smile.

Things were less complicated, now.

THE END 


End file.
